At 68, I’d never seen the ocean, so when my son invited me on a Florida beach trip, I cried right there in my kitchen. I packed a new sunhat, painted my nails pale pink, and let myself feel chosen. Then, in the hotel lobby, my daughter-in-law handed me something that showed exactly why I was there.I was crying over Jack and Rose in “Titanic” when my phone rang, which tells you almost everything you need to know about the kind of afternoon I was having while watching that movie for what had to be the hundredth time.I had a blanket over my legs, tea going cold on the side table, and one of those lonely afternoons that widows get too familiar with.”Mom,” my son, Sam, said, sounding cheerful. “We’re taking the family to Florida in two days, and we want you with us.”

“Florida?” I said. When you’ve lived your whole life in the mountains, the word feels less like a destination and more like a rumor involving sunlight and expensive sandals.”Beach trip,” Sam added. “All of us.””The… ocean?”He laughed. “Yes, Mom. The ocean.”I started crying harder, which made him laugh more and ask whether I was all right. I told him I was perfectly fine, just old enough to know that some invitations arrive 35 years later and still feel like miracles.After I hung up, I stood in my little kitchen, smiling at nothing and crying at the same time.I found a pretty sun hat at the church bazaar. Wide-brimmed, floppy, with a ribbon that had no business surviving coastal wind, but I bought it because I loved it. Then sandals soft enough not to punish my feet, two light blouses with little blue flowers, and cheap sunglasses that made me look like a retired movie star if you were very generous.