I Finally Got My Driver’s License at 62, Right After My Husband’s Funeral – But When I Checked the Saved ‘Home’ Address on His GPS, My Heart Completely Stopped
“I never laughed. I never even knew.”
“And he told you what, exactly, about me?”
“That you thought I was too simple to amount to anything.”
My voice broke. “That you thought I wasn’t good enough.”
Eleanor closed her eyes.
“And he told you what, exactly, about me?”
“I never said that,” she said quietly.
I stared at her.
“That’s why he didn’t want you to drive. Because the moment you could go somewhere on your own, you might find the door I’d opened for you. So he made sure you’d depend on him for every mile of your life.”
“I never said that,”
I stared at my own hands.
The hands that had held a paintbrush once.
Then held nothing but grocery bags and passenger doors.
“Why are you telling me now?” I asked. “Why not years ago?”
“I tried. God knows I tried.” She wiped her eyes. “That’s why we hadn’t spoken. He kept us apart on purpose so we could never compare our stories.”
Then held nothing but grocery bags and passenger doors.
“But he came here. The GPS in his truck. This address is saved as ‘home.’”
Eleanor gave a sad, tired smile.
“Near the end, something in him softened. He started coming by. He’d sit right where you’re sitting and stare at the wall for an hour.”
“Near the end, something in him softened.”
“To confess, I think, now that I’ve heard your side of things.”
She swallowed hard.
“And then his heart gave out.”
“And then his heart gave out,” she echoed.
I sat in the silence, forty years rearranging themselves behind my eyes.
“Nobody will believe me,” I finally said. “The children worship him. They’ll say I’m bitter, or confused.”
“To confess, I think.”
Eleanor rose and crossed to a small cabinet in the corner.
She unlocked it and lifted out a worn file box.
“I kept everything,” she said. “I always suspected I might need proof one day.”
Eleanor handed me the box.
***
An hour later, I drove her back to my house and called all three of my children.
“I always suspected I might need proof one day.”
I helped Eleanor to a chair in my living room, then called my children in.
They gathered around, still puffy-eyed from weeks of mourning.
“Your grandmother has something to tell you,” I began.
My daughter frowned.
“Mom, you took my advice?”
My daughter frowned.
“Not exactly,” I answered quietly.
Eleanor lifted her chin.
“Forty years ago, I offered your mother a chance to build something of her own. Richard threw it away and lied to us both.”
My son shot to his feet.
“Richard threw it away and lied to us both.”
