I put our house on the market, and moved into a studio apartment closer to the main drag. I was, finally, free to live as I wished—for the first time since I was seventeen and had become pregnant with Donald. I luxuriated in it. I stayed up late, drinking and watching old movies on television. I woke when I pleased. I took walks, played a little blackjack, ate what I wanted when I wanted. I thought about my life, where I had been and what I had done. I’d planned on living this way—quietly, freely—for another ten years or so. Then I started noting a bloating and loss of appetite and having to go to the bathroom all the time. I’m not one for rushing off to doctors at the least jigeroo in my health. When I started bleeding vaginally, I knew something was up. What it was, as I’ve already told you, was ovarian cancer.

I’m told that I can buy some extra time if I’m willing to put myself through chemotherapy. I’ve decided against it. With Matthew gone, no one is dependent on me. I don’t really have all that much to look forward to. I’ll be seventy-three next month, and I don’t figure to grow more beautiful or much smarter.

Was it freedom I longed for? Or was I only running away from responsibility? Maybe I had responsibility thrown on me too early in life: a stupid father, a meek mother, a baby to worry about at seventeen. When I think of having had five husbands even I am a bit amazed. Maybe I should have dug in and made the best of one of them. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t settle. Was I wrong? I honestly don’t know. Now, with time running out, I’m pretty sure I’m never going to know.