Shelly never could explain herself. Not as a teenager when her mother asked her where she’d been so late. Not as a young mother when her husband left her a widow. Fifty years later, a widow twice, it was her strong belief that she could get along without a man.
Dry eyes, a straight back, Shelly stood at the graveside. Her bottle black hair, a concession to old age, matched the dark raincoat wrapped around her spreading waist. Her daughters each had someone. She couldn’t explain why she envied them the happiness they had found with men who adored them.