I had traveled halfway around the world because, for once in my life, I wanted to do something entirely for myself.
At sixty-nine, that sentence still felt strange when I said it in my head.
For most of my life, doing something “for myself” had meant buying a new blouse after everyone else had what they needed, sitting alone with a cup of tea for ten minutes before somebody called, or occasionally ordering dessert at a restaurant and pretending I wasn’t too full.
I had spent decades believing that my turn would come later.
After the children grew up.
After the mortgage was paid.
After Robert retired.
After the grandchildren became less demanding.
After there were no emergencies.
After everyone else was finally okay.
There was always an after.
Until one morning, I realized that I had reached an age where “later” was no longer guaranteed.
So I sold my house.
I packed one suitcase.
And I left.
My children thought I had lost my mind.
Maybe, in a small way, I had.
But perhaps you have to be a little unreasonable to finally choose yourself after spending sixty-nine years choosing everyone else.
Australia was my fourth stop.
And I had no idea that it would be the place where the past would find me.
