“Well, happy birthday! That’s wonderful. Eighty years—that’s quite an achievement.”
“I prefer to think of it as quite an accumulation,” Maggie said with a slight smile.
Carlos laughed. “I like that. Well, in that case, this one’s on me.
Happy birthday, ma’am.”
“How kind of you,” Maggie said, raising her glass in a small toast. “Thank you, Carlos.”
She finished her drink slowly, savoring each sip, watching the last rays of sunlight disappear into the ocean. The bar was starting to fill up with the pre-dinner crowd—couples in evening wear, groups of friends laughing too loudly, solo travelers nursing drinks and staring at their phones.
As Maggie set down her empty glass, the woman sitting to her right turned toward her. She was perhaps sixty, with expensively highlighted hair and a diamond tennis bracelet that caught the light every time she moved her wrist. “Excuse me,” the woman said, “I couldn’t help but overhear.
It’s your birthday?”
“It is,” Maggie confirmed. “Well, happy birthday! I’d like to buy you a drink.
What were you having?”
Maggie smiled warmly. “That’s very generous of you. Thank you.
Carlos, I’ll have another Scotch with two drops of water, please.”
“Coming up,” Carlos said, already reaching for the Macallan. The woman extended her hand. “I’m Patricia Hendricks.
From Connecticut.”
“Margaret Thornton,” Maggie said, shaking her hand. “Boston, originally. Though I’ve lived all over.”
“Eighty years,” Patricia said, shaking her head.
“You look wonderful. What’s your secret?”
“Clean living and dirty martinis,” Maggie said with a perfectly straight face, then allowed herself a small smile. “And good genes, I suppose.
My mother lived to ninety-seven and was sharp as a tack until the very end.”
They chatted pleasantly while Maggie worked on her second Scotch. Patricia was on the cruise with her husband, who was currently losing money at the casino. She had three grown children, five grandchildren, and a Pomeranian named Mr.
Whiskers who was being pampered at a pet resort back in Greenwich. When Maggie finished her drink, a man on her left side cleared his throat. He was perhaps seventy himself, distinguished-looking with silver hair and a well-tailored blazer.
He’d been sitting quietly, working on what appeared to be his third gin and tonic. “Pardon me,” he said in a cultured British accent. “I couldn’t help but overhear that it’s your birthday.
Eighty is quite a milestone. I’d be honored to buy you a drink as well.”
Maggie turned to him with a gracious nod. “How kind.
Thank you very much, my dear.”
She looked at Carlos, who was already grinning, clearly enjoying this. “Bartender, I’ll have another Scotch with two drops of water.”
“Coming right up,” Carlos said, reaching for the bottle again. The British gentleman introduced himself as Winston Clarke, a retired surgeon from London.
He was on the cruise alone, having lost his wife two years prior, and found that traveling helped with the loneliness. “I’m sorry for your loss,” Maggie said sincerely. “Thank you.
We had forty-three wonderful years. I count myself lucky.” He raised his glass. “To your eightieth, Mrs.
Thornton. May you have many more.”
They clinked glasses, and Maggie took another sip. Carlos, who had been watching this parade of generosity with increasing amusement, finally leaned across the bar as Maggie set down her third glass.
“Ma’am,” he said, his curiosity clearly getting the better of his professional discretion, “I have to ask. I’m dying of curiosity here. Why the Scotch with only two drops of water?
Most people want it neat or with ice or a decent splash of water. But two drops exactly—I’ve been bartending for twelve years, and I’ve never had anyone request that.”
Maggie looked at him, her eyes twinkling with mischief. She leaned in slightly, as if sharing a secret, and Patricia and Winston both leaned in too, curious.
Then she giggled—actually giggled, a sound that seemed to take twenty years off her age. “Sonny,” she said, “when you’re my age, you’ve learned how to hold your liquor. That’s not the problem anymore.”
She paused for effect, her smile widening.
“Water, however, is a whole other issue.”
There was a beat of silence, and then Carlos burst out laughing. Patricia’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes crinkling with delight, and Winston let out a surprised bark of laughter that turned into a prolonged chuckle. “Oh, that’s brilliant,” Winston said, wiping his eyes.
“Absolutely brilliant.”
“I should have seen that coming,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard all week.”
Patricia was nearly crying with laughter. “Oh my God, I’m going to remember that.
When I’m eighty, I’m using that line.”
Maggie accepted their laughter with a modest smile, taking another small sip of her Scotch. “It’s true, though,” she said when the laughter subsided. “At a certain age, you make peace with some things and develop strategies for others.
Alcohol has never been my enemy. My bladder, on the other hand, has become somewhat unreliable in its old age.”
This prompted another round of laughter, even louder than before. Other patrons at the bar were starting to look over, curious about what was so funny.
Carlos, still grinning, poured himself a small glass of water. “To Mrs. Thornton,” he said, raising it.
“The wisest woman on this ship.”
Patricia and Winston raised their glasses as well. “To Margaret,” Patricia said. “To eighty more years,” Winston added.
Maggie raised her nearly empty glass. “I’ll settle for eighty more days at this point, but I appreciate the optimism.”
They drank, and the conversation flowed easily after that. Maggie found herself genuinely enjoying the company.
It was one of the unexpected pleasures of traveling alone at her age—people were often kind, often generous, and often more interesting than they first appeared. Stories and Connection
Winston told a story about accidentally operating on a minor member of the royal family and only finding out afterward who they were. “I spent the entire procedure thinking he looked vaguely familiar,” Winston said, shaking his head.
“Wasn’t until I saw him on the news three days later that I realized I’d removed his appendix. My hands didn’t shake during the surgery, but they certainly did when I made that connection.”
Patricia shared a hilarious tale about her Pomeranian eating an entire Thanksgiving turkey off the counter while the family was saying grace. “We heard this crash and looked up to see Mr.
Whiskers dragging a fifteen-pound turkey across the kitchen floor. The veterinary adventure that followed cost more than the cruise we’re on now.”
Carlos contributed stories from his years at sea, including the time a passenger tried to smuggle a full-size parrot onto the ship in a tennis ball container. “The bird started squawking during security screening.
The passenger insisted it was a ‘mechanical toy.’ Security was not amused.”
As the evening wore on and the bar grew more crowded, Maggie glanced at her watch—a vintage Cartier that had been her husband’s gift for their fiftieth anniversary. “Goodness, it’s nearly eight,” she said. “I should head to dinner.”
“Are you dining alone?” Patricia asked.
“You’re welcome to join my husband and me. He’s probably finished losing our vacation budget by now.”
“That’s very kind, but I have a table reservation,” Maggie said. “Though perhaps we’ll see each other around the ship.
It’s not that big, despite appearances.”
“I’d like that,” Patricia said warmly. Winston stood and offered his hand. “It’s been a genuine pleasure, Mrs.
Thornton. Happy birthday once again.”
“Thank you, Winston. Enjoy your evening.”
Carlos came around the bar to help her down from the stool—unnecessary, but gallant.
“Mrs. Thornton, this was the highlight of my shift. Thank you for the laugh.”
“Thank you for the free drink,” Maggie said with a wink.
“And the excellent service.”
She made her way through the bar, nodding at a few people who had clearly overheard the “two drops of water” punchline and were still smiling about it. Dinner and Reflection
The dining room was on Deck 5, and Maggie took the elevator down, sharing the space with a young couple who couldn’t stop taking selfies. She smiled at them indulgently.
Young love was exhausting, but it was also beautiful in its own frantic way. The maître d’ greeted her by name—she’d tipped him well on the first night—and led her to a small table by the window. The ocean was dark now, just an endless black punctuated by the ship’s lights reflecting on the water.
“Your waiter will be with you shortly, Mrs. Thornton. May I bring you something from the bar while you wait?”
“Just water, please,” Maggie said.
“Still, not sparkling. And perhaps not too much of it.”
The maître d’ smiled politely, not getting the joke, and walked away. Maggie settled into her chair, spreading the linen napkin across her lap.
She looked around the dining room—couples celebrating anniversaries, families with restless teenagers, groups of friends who’d probably been planning this trip for years. She was alone, but she wasn’t lonely. There was a difference, she’d learned.
Her husband Edward had been gone for seven years now. Their three children were scattered across the country with lives and families of their own. They’d wanted to come on this cruise with her, had practically insisted, but Maggie had refused.
“I’m eighty, not dead,” she’d told her daughter Catherine. “I can still take a cruise by myself. Besides, you have enough to worry about with the twins starting college.”
In truth, she’d wanted this time alone.
Time to think, to remember, to simply be without anyone hovering or worrying or treating her like she might shatter at any moment. The waiter arrived—a young woman named Sofia—and took her order. Maggie chose the sea bass and a simple salad, along with a glass of Chardonnay that she actually would drink with more than two drops of water.
While she waited for her meal, she pulled out her phone. Her grandson had taught her how to use it properly, and she’d become surprisingly adept at texting and even occasionally posting on Facebook, much to her children’s amusement. She opened her messages and found seventeen birthday wishes.
She responded to each one personally, taking her time, adding little details that showed she was thinking of each person individually. To her grandson Tyler: Thank you, sweetheart. I’m on the cruise ship and just made some new friends at the bar.
Told them your grandmother’s famous joke about the water. They loved it. Miss you.
To her daughter Catherine: Beautiful day at sea. Don’t worry about me—I’m eating well, sleeping well, and not falling overboard. Will call tomorrow.
To her son Michael: The ship has a library. Can you believe it? An actual library at sea.
I found a first edition Hemingway. Your father would have been thrilled. Her meal arrived, and it was excellent—perfectly cooked fish with a light lemon sauce, fresh vegetables that actually had flavor.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite, watching the other diners, eavesdropping shamelessly on the conversations around her. A couple three tables over was having an argument in hushed, tense voices. Newlyweds, Maggie guessed, or close to it.
They hadn’t yet learned that some arguments weren’t worth having, that being right mattered less than being kind. A family with two young children was struggling to keep the kids entertained. The mother looked exhausted, the father was on his phone, and the children were doing that particular whine that only small children can achieve.
Maggie remembered those days—Edward trying to wrangle three kids under five while she attempted to have one adult conversation with the waiter. It had been chaos. It had been exhausting.
It had been wonderful. She thought about the years that followed—the graduations and weddings, the grandchildren arriving one by one, the trips they’d taken, the quiet evenings reading side by side, the way Edward’s hand always found hers without thinking. She thought about the year he got sick, the doctors’ appointments, the treatments that didn’t work, the final months when he’d insisted on staying home instead of going to a hospital.
“I want to die in my own bed,” he’d said. “With you beside me. Not hooked up to machines in some sterile room.”
And that’s how it had happened.
Peacefully, on a Tuesday morning in April, with spring sunlight streaming through their bedroom window and Maggie holding his hand. “Thank you,” he’d whispered, his voice barely audible. “For forty-three years of everything.”
Those were his last words.
Thank you. Maggie had cried, of course. Had grieved deeply and thoroughly.
But she’d also felt grateful—grateful they’d had so many years, grateful he hadn’t suffered long, grateful for the life they’d built together. And now, seven years later, she could sit in a ship’s dining room and think about him without the sharp pain that used to accompany every memory. The grief was still there, but it had softened into something more bearable—a gentle ache, like an old injury that bothered you in certain weather.
The Deck Walk
After dinner, Maggie decided to take a walk around the deck before retiring to her cabin. The night air was warm and slightly humid, the sky full of stars that you could never see in the city. She found a quiet spot near the railing and stood there, listening to the ocean, feeling the gentle movement of the ship beneath her feet.
“Beautiful night,” a voice said beside her. She turned to find Winston, the British surgeon from the bar, standing a respectful distance away. “It is,” she agreed.
“I hope I’m not intruding. I like to walk the deck after dinner. Helps with digestion.”
“Not at all.
I do the same.”
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the dark water slide past the ship’s hull. “Can I ask you something?” Winston said. “And please tell me if I’m being too forward.”
“Ask away.
At eighty, I’m beyond being offended by questions.”
“Does it get easier?” he asked quietly. “Being alone. I know you mentioned you’re widowed as well.”
Maggie considered the question carefully.
She’d been asked variations of it before, usually by well-meaning friends who wanted reassurance that their own grief would eventually become manageable. “Yes and no,” she said finally. “The acute pain fades.
That part gets easier. You stop expecting to see them in their chair or hear their voice in another room. But the absence doesn’t go away.
You just learn to live around it, like a piece of furniture you can’t move.”
Winston nodded slowly. “That’s what I thought. Some days are better than others.”
“Some days are better than others,” Maggie agreed.
“But Winston, here’s what I’ve learned—and this is the wisdom of eighty years, so take it for what it’s worth.”
He turned to look at her, his face half in shadow from the deck lights. “The absence is permanent, but joy isn’t. You can still find it.
Different joy, maybe. Smaller moments. A good drink.
A kind stranger. A beautiful sunset. It doesn’t replace what you lost, but it fills in some of the gaps.”
Winston was quiet for a long moment, his hands resting on the railing.
“Thank you,” he said finally. “That’s the most helpful thing anyone’s said to me in two years. Everyone else just tells me ‘time heals all wounds’ or ‘she’d want you to be happy,’ and I know they mean well, but it’s not… it’s not useful, somehow.”
“No, it’s not,” Maggie agreed.
“Because time doesn’t heal wounds—it just teaches you how to live with scars. And of course she’d want you to be happy, but that doesn’t make you magically happy. It just makes you feel guilty for being sad.”
“Exactly,” Winston said, relief evident in his voice.
“You understand.”
“I do. And Winston? You’re doing fine.
You’re on a cruise. You’re buying birthday drinks for elderly women. You’re walking the deck and looking at stars.
That’s not giving up. That’s living.”
“I suppose it is,” he said, a small smile touching his face. They walked together for a while, talking about inconsequential things—the ship’s entertainment schedule, the ports they’d be visiting, the quality of the coffee in the various lounges.
Maggie told him about her planned snorkeling excursion in Cozumel, and Winston admitted he’d signed up for the same trip. “My children think I’m crazy,” Maggie said. “Catherine sent me three articles about senior citizens and water sports, all of them emphasizing the risks.”
“My daughter did the same thing,” Winston said with a chuckle.
“She wanted me to book the ‘scenic bus tour’ instead. Very safe, very boring.”
“We’ll probably be the oldest people on the excursion,” Maggie observed. “Almost certainly.
But we’ll also be the ones with the best stories afterward.”
Eventually, Maggie excused herself and headed back to her cabin. It was small but elegant, with a balcony that looked out over the ocean. She changed into her nightgown—soft cotton, nothing fancy—washed her face, and did the various small rituals that nighttime required at eighty.
Then she stepped out onto the balcony with a light blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The ocean stretched out endlessly in every direction, dark and mysterious and somehow comforting in its vastness. The ship’s wake glowed faintly with bioluminescence, creating a trail of pale blue light that disappeared into the darkness behind them.
Birthday Reflections
Maggie thought about the day—the bar, the drinks, the laughter, the new friends, the memories of Edward, the conversations about loneliness and joy. She thought about being eighty, about having lived through so much—wars and peace, technological revolutions, social upheavals, personal triumphs and tragedies. She’d been born in 1944, right in the middle of World War II.
Her father had been overseas fighting in France when she took her first breath. She’d grown up in the post-war boom, come of age in the turbulent sixties, raised children in the seventies and eighties, watched the world transform in ways her younger self could never have imagined. She’d seen the first man walk on the moon.
She’d watched the Berlin Wall fall. She’d lived through the rise of computers, the internet, smartphones. She’d adapted, learned, changed.
She’d also buried her parents, two siblings, her husband, and more friends than she cared to count. She’d survived cancer, a car accident that should have killed her, and a heart attack five years ago that her cardiologist called “remarkably mild.”
“You’re built sturdy,” the doctor had told her. “Like a vintage car.
They made them to last back then.”
She thought about her joke, about holding liquor versus holding water, and she smiled. Because that was the truth of aging, wasn’t it? You learned what you could control and what you couldn’t.
You learned which battles to fight and which to surrender to with grace and humor. You learned that dignity didn’t mean pretending everything was fine. It meant acknowledging what wasn’t fine and finding a way to laugh about it anyway.
Incontinence wasn’t funny, exactly. It was inconvenient and sometimes embarrassing and definitely annoying. But it was also just a fact of life at eighty, like arthritis in her hands and the way her knees creaked when she stood up too fast.
You could rage against it—many people did—or you could make a joke about two drops of water and let people laugh with you instead of at you. Maggie preferred the second option. She thought about tomorrow’s snorkeling trip.
Catherine had been genuinely concerned, not just overprotective, and Maggie appreciated that. But she’d been swimming since she was four years old. She’d taught all three of her children to swim in the lake near their summer house.
She’d done laps in the community pool well into her seventies. Would she be slower than she used to be? Of course.
Would she tire more easily? Absolutely. But would she still be able to see beautiful fish and coral and experience something wonderful?
Yes. And that was what mattered. Life Lessons at Eighty
Maggie stood on her balcony for a long time, wrapped in her blanket, watching the stars and listening to the ocean.
She thought about all the lessons eighty years had taught her—lessons that couldn’t be learned from books or passed down through advice, only through living. She’d learned that love was patient and kind, yes, but also messy and complicated and sometimes frustrating. That the same person who annoyed you to tears in the morning could make you laugh until you cried in the evening.
She’d learned that parenthood was equal parts joy and terror, and that you never stopped worrying about your children even when they were fifty years old with children of their own. She’d learned that career success was satisfying but that the work itself mattered more than the recognition. She’d been a teacher for thirty-five years, and while she’d won awards and accolades, what she remembered most were the individual students—the ones who’d struggled and succeeded, the ones who’d thanked her years later, the ones who’d taught her as much as she’d taught them.
She’d learned that money was important—poverty was real and grinding and cruel—but that it couldn’t buy the things that truly mattered. Her happiest memories weren’t from the expensive vacations or fancy dinners, but from ordinary moments: reading bedtime stories to her children, Sunday morning crossword puzzles with Edward, impromptu dance parties in the kitchen. She’d learned that friendship required effort and attention, that you had to actively maintain relationships or they’d fade away.
But she’d also learned that true friendship could survive long silences and great distances, that you could reconnect with someone after years apart and pick up right where you left off. She’d learned that aging was inevitable but that how you aged was a choice. You could rail against every change and loss, or you could accept what you couldn’t control and focus on what you could.
She’d learned that her body would eventually betray her—eyesight fading, hearing diminishing, joints stiffening, bladder weakening—but that her mind could stay sharp if she kept using it. She still read voraciously, did crossword puzzles, learned new things. Just last year, she’d taken a class on digital photography.
Her grandson had given her a good camera for Christmas, and she’d wanted to learn how to use it properly. She’d been the oldest student in the class by forty years, but she’d kept up, learned the technical aspects, and now she had folders full of photos that actually captured what she’d wanted to capture. She’d learned that fear was a liar.
That most of the things she’d worried about in her life never happened, and the truly terrible things came without warning and couldn’t have been prevented anyway. So worry was useless—better to focus on the present, on what was actually happening rather than what might happen. She’d learned that it was never too late to change, to grow, to try something new.
She’d learned Italian at sixty-five just because she’d always wanted to. She’d taken up watercolor painting at seventy-two and discovered she had a real talent for it. And she’d learned—really, truly learned—that you couldn’t control other people.
You could love them, support them, advise them, but ultimately they had to make their own choices and their own mistakes. Accepting that had been one of the hardest lessons, especially as a parent. Looking Forward
Tomorrow they’d dock in Cozumel.
She’d booked a snorkeling excursion, despite her children’s protests that it wasn’t safe for someone her age. “I’m eighty,” she’d told them. “If I drown while looking at tropical fish, at least I’ll die doing something interesting.”
She wouldn’t drown, of course.
She was a strong swimmer, always had been. And the tour company had assured her they had safety measures in place, guides who stayed close, life vests for everyone. But even if she did—even if tomorrow was her last day—she’d go out knowing she’d lived every single one of her eighty years as fully as possible.
She’d loved deeply and been loved in return. She’d laughed until she cried and cried until she laughed. She’d raised good children who’d become good adults.
She’d traveled the world, or at least a good portion of it. She’d learned new things and tried new experiences and never, ever stopped being curious about what came next. She’d made mistakes, of course.
Said things she shouldn’t have said, done things she shouldn’t have done, hurt people she’d loved. But she’d also apologized when she was wrong, forgiven when she was hurt, and tried to be better tomorrow than she’d been today. And really, when you thought about it, that was the best way to hold your liquor—and your water, and your grief, and your joy, and everything else life handed you.
With grace, with humor, and with exactly two drops of whatever you needed to get through the day. Maggie smiled at the dark ocean, raised an imaginary glass to the stars, and whispered, “Happy birthday to me.”
Then she went inside, climbed into bed, and slept the deep, peaceful sleep of someone who had absolutely nothing left to prove. Tomorrow would bring new adventures—coral reefs and tropical fish, new conversations and new laughter, new moments to collect and remember.
But tonight, wrapped in soft sheets on a ship sailing through warm Caribbean waters, Maggie was content. Eighty years. Eighty years of living, learning, loving, losing, and finding her way through it all.
Not a bad accumulation, she thought, as sleep pulled her gently under. Not bad at all. Epilogue: The Snorkeling Trip
The next morning dawned bright and warm, the sun turning the ocean into a field of diamonds.
Maggie dressed in her swimsuit—a modest one-piece in navy blue—with shorts and a linen shirt over it. She’d packed reef-safe sunscreen, a hat, her waterproof camera, and the sense of adventure that had carried her through eight decades. The snorkeling tour group met on the dock after breakfast.
As predicted, Maggie and Winston were by far the oldest participants. Most of the group was in their thirties and forties, a few teenagers with their parents, one young couple who looked to be on their honeymoon. The guide, a cheerful Mexican man named Roberto, went through the safety briefing with practiced ease.
He explained the buddy system, the hand signals, what to do if anyone felt uncomfortable or tired. “And remember,” he said with a grin, “the ocean is the fish’s house. We’re just visiting.
Be respectful guests.”
They loaded into a boat and motored out to the reef. The water was impossibly clear, turquoise near the shore fading to deep blue further out. Maggie could see the reef formation below, the water shallow enough that the coral colors were visible even from the surface.
Winston appeared at her side as they prepared to enter the water. “Ready for this?” he asked. “Absolutely,” Maggie said, adjusting her mask.
“You?”
“Terrified,” he admitted with a smile. “But doing it anyway.”
“That’s the spirit.”
They slipped into the water together, and Maggie felt that moment of adjustment—the coolness, the weightlessness, the slight disorientation that comes from entering a different element. Then she put her face in the water, and the underwater world revealed itself.
It was spectacular. Schools of bright yellow fish darted between coral formations. A sea turtle glided past, ancient and serene, completely unbothered by the humans floating above.
Purple and orange coral swayed in the gentle current. A spotted eagle ray cruised by in the distance, wings rippling like an underwater bird. Maggie floated there, mesmerized, sixty years of life experience telling her this was special while her eighty-year-old body reminded her not to stay too long, not to push too hard.
She stayed for forty-five minutes—long enough to see everything, not so long that she’d be exhausted. When she climbed back into the boat, slightly out of breath but exhilarated, Roberto offered her a hand up and a bottle of cold water. “You’re a natural,” he said.
“Better than some people half your age.”
“I’ve been swimming since before you were born,” Maggie said with a smile. “Possibly before your parents were born.”
Winston returned to the boat a few minutes later, equally enthused. “That was incredible,” he said, collapsing onto the bench beside her.
“Absolutely worth every concerned phone call from my daughter.”
“Mine too,” Maggie agreed. On the boat ride back, she took photos of the coastline, the other passengers, Winston looking windblown and happy. She’d make a nice album from this trip, something to show her grandchildren and remember when the days grew shorter and colder back home.
That evening, she saw Patricia and her husband at dinner and joined them at their table. They swapped stories from their respective day trips—Patricia had done a ruins tour—and made plans to meet for drinks the following night. She ran into Carlos at the bar and told him about the snorkeling trip.
“And no problems with the water?” he asked with a knowing grin. “I wore appropriate equipment,” Maggie said primly. “And I didn’t drink three Scotches beforehand.”
He laughed and poured her a single glass of wine—with more than two drops of water this time.
The cruise continued for five more days. Maggie snorkeled twice more, took a cooking class on board, attended a lecture on Caribbean history, played bridge with a group of women in the ship’s card room, and collected more memories than she’d be able to recount to her children. On the last night, there was a formal dinner and dancing.
Maggie wore her best dress—deep emerald green, elegant but not ostentatious—and her pearls. Winston asked her to dance, and they moved slowly across the floor to big band music that had been popular when they were young. “Thank you,” Winston said as the song ended.
“For everything you said that first night. About joy and absence and living. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”
“I’m glad it helped,” Maggie said.
“It did. More than you know. I think… I think I’m ready to start living again.
Really living, not just going through motions.”
“That’s wonderful, Winston. Your wife would be proud.”
“So would your husband,” Winston said gently. Maggie smiled.
“Yes. He would.”
When the ship docked back in Fort Lauderdale, Maggie gathered her belongings, tipped the staff generously, and exchanged contact information with Patricia and Winston. “Let’s not be cruise friends who promise to stay in touch and never do,” Patricia said firmly.
“I mean it. I want to hear from you.”
“You will,” Maggie promised. And she meant it.
Her son Michael picked her up at the port, immediately launching into worried questions about whether she’d been safe, whether she’d taken her medications, whether she’d overexerted herself. “Michael,” Maggie said patiently, “I’m eighty, not infirm. I had a wonderful time.
I made new friends. I went snorkeling. I drank Scotch with two drops of water.
And I came home safely. Can we please drive now?”
He laughed and helped her with her luggage, shaking his head but smiling. On the drive back to her house—she’d insisted on keeping her own place, refusing to move in with any of her children—Maggie looked out the window at the familiar Florida landscape.
She was glad to be home. But she was also glad she’d gone. That was the secret, really.
Knowing when to adventure and when to rest. When to push boundaries and when to accept limits. When to say yes and when to say no.
And always, always, knowing exactly how many drops of water you needed. Not too many. Not too few.
Just exactly right for who you were and where you were in life. Maggie smiled to herself, already planning her next trip. After all, she was only eighty.
She had plenty of time left for more adventures. THE END
