It started small, the way it does for most of us.
A little leak when I sneezed. A "gotta go NOW" feeling out of nowhere. One extra trip to the bathroom at night. Then two. Then three.
I did what every woman does.
I adapted.
I memorized every bathroom in town. I stopped drinking water after 6 PM. I said no to long car rides. I kept a spare pair of pants in my trunk.
I thought I had it under control.
Then came my granddaughter Lily's spring recital.
She was on stage in her little yellow dress. She did her twirl, looked right at me, and waved.
The whole row laughed with joy.
And I felt it happen.
I had to shuffle past eleven people, in the middle of her big moment, praying nobody could tell.
I sat in the bathroom stall and cried.
That night I told my husband, "Something has to change. This is not living."