She thought about it for a moment, her fingers still resting lightly against her pearl earrings.
“Paris.”
I smiled. “Are you sure?”
She touched the earrings again, gently. “Your grandfather always wanted to take me.”
Then she looked at me, something bright and steady in her eyes.
“And this time, I’m buying my own ticket.”
I laughed. She laughed too, and it was the easiest, most unguarded sound I’d heard from her in longer than I could remember.
Our flight was called shortly after. Grandma stood, picked up her own suitcase without waiting for anyone to offer, and together we walked toward the gate.
No one was waiting to abandon her this time. No one was holding her money over her head. No one was standing between her and a life she’d more than earned the right to live entirely on her own terms.
For the first time in longer than any of us could probably measure, Grandma Hazel was not someone’s mother, obligated and overlooked in equal measure. Not someone’s beneficiary, valued only for what she could provide. Not, in the end, anyone’s bank account.
