After years of depending on my husband to drive, getting behind the wheel felt like starting over. Then my neighbor decided he had the right to tell me where I could and couldn't go.
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The little plastic card felt heavier than it should have, sitting in my palm like a passport to somewhere I'd never been.
Sixty years old, and I finally had my driver's license.
I sat in the front seat of my old Chevrolet in the DMV parking lot, adjusted my mirror for the third time, and let out a laugh that surprised me. Paul would've teased me for taking so long to pull out.
My husband had been gone for two years. Forty-one years of marriage, and he'd driven every single mile of it.
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Stella's voice came through my open window. My best friend since our filing-cabinet days at the insurance office, she was leaning against her own car with that grin she'd worn since we met.
My husband compared my weight to his brother's wife — Our son's toast silenced him
