sat there, wine dripping from my chin onto my lap, and felt the weight of my seventy-one years settle into my bones like lead. The dining room, the stage for a lifetime of family memories, suddenly felt like a courtroom where I had just been sentenced for the crime of being old and in the way.

Without a word, I took my linen napkin and calmly, deliberately, wiped the wine from my face. I folded the stained cloth and placed it beside my plate. Then I stood, the scrape of my chair against the hardwood floor the only sound I made.

“Dorothy, oh my god,” Lisa managed between gasps of laughter. “You should see your face.”

I walked to the front closet and retrieved my purse and my coat. No one moved to stop me. I opened the front door and stepped out into the cool evening air. The wine was already starting to make my scalp itch. I walked down the path, past the garden I had tended for four decades, and didn’t look back