I sold my business for $45 million. I ran to my husband’s office to tell him. When I arrived, I h…

Living on My Own Terms

The divorce was finalized nine months after that morning in Robert’s office. I was 63 years old, single for the first time since I was 25, and wealthier than I’d ever imagined I could be.

Christina, my daughter, was furious with her father. She’d suspected something was off for years, she told me, but had never wanted to believe it.

She supported me completely, which meant Robert’s relationship with his daughter and grandchildren became strained. That was his choice, not mine.

With the divorce behind me, I had to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. $45 million is a lot of money, but it’s also a lot of responsibility.

I did hire a financial adviser, but not Robert’s. I found my own, a woman named Patricia Hu, who specialized in helping newly divorced women manage sudden wealth.

Together we created a plan. Twenty million went into conservative investments: bonds, index funds, and real estate investment trusts.

Ten million went into a foundation I established to help women entrepreneurs start their own businesses. I called it the Second Chances Foundation.

I worked with Christina, who had always been interested in business development, to run it. Five million I kept liquid for living expenses and personal investments.

And 10 million. Ten million I used to have some fun.

I bought that villa in Tuscany—not rented it, bought it. A small stone house with a garden overlooking the hills where I spent six months learning to speak Italian and making wine with the locals.

I took that cruise through the Greek islands, except I didn’t take a cruise ship. I chartered a small yacht with a captain and crew, and I invited Christina and her family to join me.

We spent three weeks swimming in impossibly blue water and eating fresh fish on tiny islands that didn’t have names on any map.

I paid off Christina’s medical school loans and I set up trust funds for my grandchildren. But not the kind that would make them lazy; the kind that would pay for their education and give them seed money for businesses or homes, but require them to work for anything beyond that.

And I started dating. At 63, I wasn’t looking for another husband—I’d had one of those, and look how that turned out.

But I discovered I enjoyed male companionship without the legal entanglements. I went on dates with retired professors and artists and a very charming Italian man named Enzo who owned a bakery in Florence.

None of them were serious; that wasn’t the point. The point was that I was living my life on my terms for the first time in decades.

Two years after the divorce, I was back in Charleston for Christina’s birthday. We were having dinner at a restaurant downtown, the kind of place I never would have gone to when I was married because Robert always said it was too expensive.

The waiter had just brought our appetizers when I saw him. Robert was sitting at a table across the room with a woman I didn’t recognize.

She was younger than him, though not as young as Melissa. They were holding hands across the table.

He saw me at the same moment our eyes met. He looked older, thinner; there was a tightness around his mouth that hadn’t been there before.

I should have felt triumphant, vindicated, something. Instead, I felt nothing. Not anger, not satisfaction, just a mild curiosity about the woman he was with, and then a stronger curiosity about the wine list.

“Mom?”

Christina touched my hand.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,”

I said, and I meant it.

“Let’s get a bottle of the Barolo, the good one”.

We ordered the expensive wine and the expensive entrée and the ridiculously overpriced dessert that turned out to be worth every penny.

We laughed and told stories, and Christina showed me pictures of the grandkids on her phone. I didn’t look at Robert’s table again.

Later, as we were leaving, I had to walk past him to get to the exit. He stood up as I approached.

“Dorothy,”

He said awkwardly.

“You look well”

“Thank you”

“I heard about your foundation, the Second Chances thing. That’s… that’s good that you’re doing something meaningful with the money”.

I almost laughed, still thinking about the money.

“I’m doing a lot of things, Robert. The foundation is just one of them”.

“Right, of course”

He gestured to the woman at his table.

“This is Karen. Karen, this is Dorothy, my ex-wife”.

Karen looked uncomfortable. I felt a flash of sympathy for her; she had no idea what she was getting into.

“Nice to meet you,”

I said politely. Then to Robert,

“I hope you’re well”.

I walked out before he could respond. Christina was waiting for me outside.

“That was gracious of you. I would have thrown my drink at him”.

She said.

“I thought about it,”

I admitted,

“but the Barolo was too good to waste”.

We laughed all the way to the car. That night, lying in bed in my small apartment overlooking the harbor, I thought about everything that had happened: the betrayal, the divorce, the money, the new life I’d built.

Some people might say I got lucky. That finding out about the affair right after the business sale was fortunate timing; that the money made everything easier.

And they’d be right about the money; it absolutely made things easier. But luck? No.

I’d worked for 40 years to build something of value. I’d made smart choices even when they were hard; I’d trusted my instincts when something felt wrong.

And when my world fell apart, I’d picked up the pieces and built something new. That wasn’t luck; that was life.

I fell asleep thinking about my next trip. Patricia, my financial adviser, had mentioned a photography tour through New Zealand.

Six weeks, small group, professional instruction. I’d always wanted to learn photography. At 63 years old, I had all the time in the world.