My name is Neala, and at 65, I had just officially stepped away from the chalk dust of the high school classroom where I had taught for decades.
That old Victorian house had seen nearly my entire life, from an eager young teacher to a widow, and now to an old woman whose hair was dusted with the frost of time.
On the mantelpiece, a photograph of my late husband, Samuel, still stood there, stern and dignified.
Thinking of him stirred a complicated feeling in my chest, a blend of sorrow and the relief of a heavy burden finally being lifted.
People often say not to speak badly of the dead, but the invisible wounds his beatings and cruel scolding left on my soul had never disappeared.
He had been a violent, controlling man who always treated our son and me like possessions that belonged only to him.
The day he learned he had terminal cancer was the same day our son, Nicholas, received his acceptance letter to a prestigious state university.
