But I got something more important back. I got myself back. My name. My voice. My right to be treated like a person and not an appliance.
One day Sarah gave me another drawing. It showed me standing in front of a house with a suitcase in one hand and a smile on my face.
Underneath, in crooked letters, she had written: My grandma Beatrice is the bravest woman I know because she knew when to leave and when she was ready to come back.
I framed it.
Months later, I sat in the park with Michael and Sarah eating corn ice cream under a big shade tree. Michael, older now and more serious, asked me something that only a child can ask so directly.
“Grandma, do you regret leaving that night?”
“Never,” I said. “Not even a little.”
Sarah climbed into my lap.
“Are you happy now?”
“Yes,” I told her. “Because now I live where I choose to be, not where I am merely tolerated.”
Daniel arrived with coffee and sat down beside us. The children begged to make our Sunday park afternoons a tradition. He looked at me then with the same sincerity he had as a little boy.