Freedom at Sixty-Eight

I was sixty-eight when I finally retired after almost forty years of teaching elementary school.

I’d kept my maiden name, Wilson, when we married. After nearly forty years of teaching, everyone simply knew me as Mrs. Wilson.

My daughter Emma brought a cake that said, “Congratulations on your freedom!”

“Freedom?” I laughed. “I still have thirty years of laundry waiting for me.”

“Then leave it, Mom. Do something you’ve always wanted.”

The problem was, I’d spent so long caring for everyone else that I’d forgotten what I wanted.

My husband Richard died of a heart attack thirty-two years earlier, leaving me with twelve-year-old Emma and nine-year-old Daniel.

Richard was my first love. After his death, I worked extra hours to raise our children.

“Mom, why do you work so much?” Emma once asked.

“Because I want you and Daniel to have everything you need, sweetheart.”

“And what about you?”

“I have you two. That’s enough.”

I kept notebooks filled with memories and dreams. After Richard died, I began writing letters to him.

“Who are you writing to, Mom?” Emma once asked.

“Your dad, sweetheart.”

“But he can’t read them.”

“I know. But writing to him makes me feel like he’s still here.”

For thirty-two years, I believed I’d had a perfect love, even if it ended too soon.

Then, three months after retirement, my doctor told me I had terminal cancer.

“Can you operate?” I asked.

“I’m afraid surgery won’t cure it, Mrs. Wilson.”

“Chemotherapy?”

“We can discuss treatment to manage your symptoms.”

“How much time?”

“I can’t give you an exact number.”

“Please don’t protect my feelings.”

He sighed. “We may be talking about months rather than years.”

I cried in my car for almost an hour.

That evening, I opened an old notebook.

See Paris someday.

Richard and I had always dreamed of visiting Paris together, but we’d kept putting it off.

I touched the faded ink.

“Well, Richard,” I whispered, “I guess I’m finally going. I just wish you could come with me.”

The next morning, I called Emma.

“I’m going to Paris.”

There was silence.

“Mom?”

“I’ve never been abroad. I want to go.”

“Then you’re going,” she said.

Daniel offered to accompany me. “Mom, you shouldn’t travel alone.”

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“Daniel, I taught thirty eight-year-olds how to behave during fire drills. I can manage an airport.”

I got my first passport, booked a modest hotel, and bought a plane ticket.