After years of putting everyone else’s needs before my own, I finally decided to do something for myself. Little did I know my adventure would lead me to strangers who seemed to know more about my marriage than I expected.

The hotel owner looked at my passport, dropped his pen, and shouted, “She’s finally here!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“Excuse me?”

He hurried around the reception desk, grinning.

“Mallory?”

“She’s finally here!”

“That’s what my passport says.”

“The Biscuit Queen!”

I stared at him.

“I’m sorry, the what?”

He clapped his hands.

“Everyone’s going to be delighted!”

I tightened my grip on my suitcase.

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“Sir, I’m 68 years old. I’ve been traveling for almost 20 hours, and I haven’t slept properly since Tuesday. If you’re selling something, I’m not interested.”

He burst out laughing.

Then he said something that made my heart stop.

“Your husband told me you’d say that.”

My husband, Robert, had been dead for a year!

“I’m not interested.”

***

Since Robert died, my apartment had felt painfully quiet.

We’d been married for 44 years. I missed hearing him complain about the missing television remote and burnt toast, or announce some new Middle-earth fact.

Our children and grandchildren lived less than an hour away, but weeks sometimes passed without a call or visit.

When they contacted me, they usually needed something.

I missed hearing him complain.

Our daughter, Susan, wanted me to babysit.

Our son, David, needed help with errands.

My granddaughter, Chloe, often asked to borrow things.

I loved them, but I’d become useful rather than interesting.

Our daughter, Susan, wanted me to babysit.

Robert and I had dreamed of visiting New Zealand for years.

We loved “The Lord of the Rings” books and movies.

We talked endlessly about seeing Hobbiton in Matamata, the landscapes around Tongariro, and Milford Sound.

But there was always something more important.