My husband, Paul, had driven everywhere during our forty-one years of marriage. When he died suddenly two years earlier, I was left standing in my kitchen with car keys I had no idea how to use. :chatgpt-content-reference{index=”0″}
For the next year, I depended on everyone else.
My best friend Stella drove me when she could. My daughter helped when she visited. Women from church took me grocery shopping. I used taxis and buses.
Every ride came with the same uncomfortable feeling—that I was inconveniencing somebody.
Then I missed my eight-year-old granddaughter Emma’s first piano recital because Stella’s car wouldn’t start and I couldn’t find another way to Columbus.
Emma called afterward.
“Grandma, why didn’t you come? You promised.”
That broke me.
