If you’re so independent, find your own way home. Maybe that will make you realize you need help.”

Only after his car disappeared did I discover my predicament. My purse, containing my wallet and bus pass, sat on my kitchen counter, where I’d left it in our rush to leave.

My cell phone, which I’d grabbed at the last minute, showed just 3% battery remaining. I felt a flush of humiliation rise to my cheeks as I stood at the bus stop. A woman of my age with no way to get home.

Five years a widow, 30 years a teacher of literature, and now reduced to this—stranded by my only child who couldn’t understand that living in that antiseptic prison of a retirement community would kill me faster than any physical ailment. The bus stop bench offered little comfort to my arthritic hip as I contemplated my options. I could walk, but my apartment was at least 4 miles away.