My son started giving me an allowance as if I were no longer capable of making my own decisions about my life. He thought I would smile, stay in the house, and accept it. But that very morning, I emptied my account, booked a one-way ticket to Italy, and left before he could realize that the woman he wanted to control had never lost the right to choose for herself.
The envelope was sitting on the kitchen counter when I came home from my Tuesday walk. Cream-colored, my name written in Michael’s handwriting, the kind of careful script he used when he wanted to seem considerate, reasonable, almost gentle. It was the same handwriting he used on sympathy cards, on holiday labels, on the sticky…
