Then, one Tuesday morning, something inside me changed.
I had just finished cleaning Sarah’s kitchen when I caught sight of myself in the dark reflection of the microwave door.
My hair was untidy. My back hurt. My hands smelled of dish soap.
I looked exhausted.
And suddenly, I began to cry.
Not because I hated my body. Not because I was ashamed of being sixty-two.
I cried because I realized that I had spent nearly eight years making sure everyone else had a comfortable life while barely noticing that I was still alive.
I went home that afternoon, opened my laptop, and searched for seaside resorts.
I found a lovely place with a quiet beach, a swimming pool, a restaurant, and a small garden overlooking the water. It was not the most expensive resort, but it looked peaceful.
I booked a seven-day stay.
For the first time in years, I made a decision without asking whether it would inconvenience somebody else.
