I bought plane tickets for the whole family, but at the airport my daughter-in-law gently told me they had given my seat to her own mother because the kids feel ‘closer to her,’ and my son quietly agreed. I froze for a moment, then smiled and walked away without raising my voice. One minute later, after I’d calmed myself, I changed the entire $47,000 Hawaii vacation with a single polite phone call and quietly rearranged my $5.8 million estate in a way no one expected.

“All right,” she said. “I’ll file our response. This will probably take about six months to resolve, give or take.”

“I have time,” I said.

AndI do.
I have all the time in the world.

Time to paint canvases that have nothing to do with anatomy charts. Time to wander through the Art Institute on a Tuesday morning just because I feel like standing in front of Monet’s water lilies. Time to sit in coffee shops in Lincoln Park with a mystery novel, listening to conversations about classes and startups and brunch.

Time to spend with Tyler and Emma every Sunday, building something new with them—something that has boundaries and respect baked into it fromthe beginning.
Time to date Robert and see where that gentle, late-in-life romance goes. Maybe it ends in a companion to travel with. Maybe it ends in a man I hold hands with on a bench by the lake. Maybe it ends in nothing more than a reminder that I am still wanted. All of those outcomes are fine.