For forty years, that had been Richard’s job.
He always said my reflexes were too slow.
He said driving simply was not a woman’s business.
I could not visit his grave.
So my adult daughter became my chauffeur, patient but stretched thin.
« Mom, you can’t keep depending on me for every little errand, » she told me one afternoon as she pulled out of the pharmacy lot.
« I know, sweetheart. Your father always handled it. »
She sighed, drumming her fingers on the wheel.
So my adult daughter became my chauffeur.
« I don’t get it, » she sighed. « Grandma Eleanor has always been independent. Why would Dad not encourage you to be the same? »
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