I deleted the message.
Then I turned off my phone.
For the next several days, I made plans.
After my husband Harold died three years earlier, I discovered that he had prepared far better financially than I realized.
There were investments.
A life insurance policy.
Rare coins.
Our paid-off home.
My pension.
I was financially independent.
I had kept most of it private because I knew what money could do to families.
David already behaved as though he had the right to comment on my spending.
If he knew how much I actually had, advice would quickly become entitlement.
Now I was grateful I had stayed silent.
I contacted James Morrison, the attorney who had handled Harold’s estate.
“I want to leave the country,” I told him.
James stared at me.
“Myrtle, are you certain? With your health—”
“I’ve never been more certain.”
He didn’t try to stop me after that.
We reviewed my will.
My accounts.
My healthcare arrangements.
My investments.
Then I began looking for somewhere new to live.
Portugal stood out immediately.
Good healthcare.
A relatively comfortable cost of living.
Mild weather.
A community of retirees.
And most importantly, distance.
Enough distance that nobody could simply drive over and tell me how I should spend the remaining years of my life.
Four days after Christmas, I opened a new bank account and moved enough money to finance my relocation.
Then I began writing the letter I would leave behind.
I rewrote it seven times.
The first version was angry.
The second was devastated.
By the final version, I felt strangely calm.
On January 3, I packed two suitcases.
I left almost everything else behind.
Family photographs.
China.
NEXT PAGE
