She bought glasses.
One pair.
Two hundred and eighty-nine dollars.
When the financial adviser suggested a luxury car, Nancy bought a used Subaru.
When I asked why she didn’t buy something ridiculous just once, she replied, “Your father would crawl out of the cemetery and ask about depreciation.”
She donated five million dollars to establish legal and emergency housing services for older victims of financial abuse.
Another portion went into educational grants.
She paid off her sister’s mortgage without telling her until the paperwork was finished.
And then she bought something for herself.
A small cottage near the Chesapeake Bay.
Nothing enormous.
Two bedrooms.
Weathered cedar siding.
A screened porch.
The first evening we sat there together, the water reflected the sunset in copper streaks.
My mother wore her new glasses.
She looked younger.
Not because the bruises were gone.
Because she was laughing again.
“I think your father would have liked this,” she said.
