I posted it with one caption:

Today I begin living for the woman Ernest loved, not the mother you chose to exploit. I’m trading my chains for an ocean view. See you in a year — or whenever I feel like coming back.

I hit Post. Then, with a deeply satisfying press of my thumb, I powered the phone off and dropped it into the bottom of my handbag.

The salt air whipped my hair around my face. For the first time in forty years, I wasn’t carrying anyone’s groceries. I wasn’t carrying anyone’s medical charts.

I wasn’t carrying anyone’s emotional baggage.

I was carrying only my passport.