My knee improved slowly.
At the follow-up, the clinician confirmed I could increase activity as tolerated.
I used the cane Evelyn had lent me for another week.
By the time I could walk to the feed store comfortably, Thanksgiving was close.
Michelle called and invited me for dinner.
“Only dinner?” I teased.
“Only dinner. No hidden work assignment.”
“Then I'll bring a pie.”
“I was hoping you'd say that.”
I made two.
One pumpkin.
One apple, because Caleb preferred it.
Their kitchen smelled of roasting turkey when I arrived.
Sadie had drawn pictures of each guest and taped them to the chair backs.
Mine wore a purple dress and held a key the size of a shovel.
“Why such a big key?” I asked.
“Because you have your own house now,” she said.
I folded the picture carefully and tucked it into my handbag.
Dinner was crowded and happy.
Todd's parents came.
His mother, Linda, hugged me near the pantry.
“I'm sorry everything got awkward,” she whispered.
“You don't have to apologize for anybody else.”
“I know. But I heard about the basement.”
I looked at her.
“How much?”
“Enough to wish we'd talked first.”
She explained that she had been taking extra shifts at the bakery.
Todd and Michelle had assumed she couldn't help with childcare anymore.
That assumption had been partly right.
But they hadn't asked whether she could manage one afternoon every other week.
“I told Michelle last week that I'd like some time with the kids too,” Linda said.
“That's good.”
“Apparently we all got very busy deciding what the other person could do.”
I laughed.
“That sounds familiar.”
After supper, the children went to watch a movie.
Todd and his father took out the trash.
Michelle and I were left with the pie dishes.
She washed slowly.
Then she said, “Can I tell you what I was thinking back in September?”
“Of course.”
“I was imagining you alone at the farmhouse after Dad died. Then I pictured the Olson family asking you to leave. I kept thinking you would feel abandoned.”
I waited.
“And I thought, if you lived downstairs, I could check on you every day.”
“That sounds different from the list you gave me.”
“I know.”
“What happened between the worry and the list?”
She turned off the tap.
“Todd showed me the budget. Or enough of it to frighten me. He said we could solve two problems at once.”
“My housing and your childcare.”
“Yes.”
“And his mortgage.”
She nodded.
“At first I told myself it would be nice. You'd be with us. The kids would see you. We'd all save money.”
“But I wouldn't save money.”
“No.”
“And I'd lose hours of my week.”
“Yes.”
“Did you think I'd refuse?”
She looked ashamed.
“I didn't think you would.”
That was the heart of it.
My daughter had known me as the person who usually said yes.
She thought my willingness was part of the furniture.
Something that wouldn't need permission.
“After you chose the other place,” she continued, “I felt rejected.”
“Because I didn't move in?”
“Because I thought you were choosing not to be near us.”
I dried the last plate.
“Michelle, when you were nine, you begged for a bedroom painted green.”
She laughed.
“It was terrible green.”
“I didn't like it. But I painted it anyway.”
“I remember.”
“You wanted a space that felt like yours. You were nine, and I understood.”
Her eyes filled.
“I'm sixty-seven,” I said. “I wanted the same thing.”
She leaned against the counter.
“I wish you'd told me sooner.”
“I wish you'd asked in a way that left room for my answer.”
We were quiet for a moment.
Then she said, “I think I've been angry with you for managing without us.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad's gone. And if you don't need us, what happens to our family?”
I felt the old grief between us.
Dale had kept us connected in small ways.
He called Michelle on Sundays.
He fixed the children's bicycles.
He made everyone sit for supper even if all he had was soup.
Without him, we had each been trying to replace his steadiness.
“You don't have to be needed every day to belong to someone,” I said.
Michelle reached for me.
We hugged beside the sink.
I didn't promise to move in.
She didn't ask.
After dessert, Todd mentioned his job interview.
He had been offered the earlier shift.
The wage increase wasn't large.
But the schedule would be consistent, which mattered as much as the money.
They had decided to accept it.
He would start in December.
“Good news,” I said.
He smiled.
“Feels good to have something definite.”
Before I left, Sadie handed me a paper turkey.
Its feathers were made from traced hands.
She had drawn one feather with a little white house.
“That one's your house,” she said.
“And this one?”
“Our house.”
“And why are they on the same turkey?”
“Because it's family.”
I carried the turkey home on the passenger seat.
It slid around a little whenever I turned.
On the first Sunday after Thanksgiving, I brought home a container of leftovers and ate them for lunch.
I had always been the one sending food home with other people.
It felt pleasant to be on the receiving end.
I washed the container and set it aside to return.
Michelle had written a note on the lid.
THANK YOU FOR COMING.
Not thank you for helping.
Not thank you for watching the children.
Just thank you for coming.
I pinned it beside the children's artwork.
The next afternoon I met Linda for coffee.
We had always been friendly, but most of our conversations had revolved around the children.
This time we talked about ourselves.
She told me about the bakery where she worked and the woman who trained her to make pastry dough.
I told her about my years at the lumberyard.
“We should have gotten to know each other better,” she said.
“Perhaps.”
“We were so busy being mothers and grandmothers.”
“We still are.”
“True. But there are other things.”
She asked whether I'd like to go to a craft fair with her in December.
I accepted.
On the way home, she mentioned Todd's finances.
I told her I preferred not to discuss his debts without his permission.
She looked relieved.
“That's fair. I worry about him.”
“So do I.”
“Sometimes I think I should just pay a bill for them.”
“It's tempting.”
“Do you think that would help?”
“Only you can decide what you can give. But I'd ask what the plan is first.”
She nodded.
“I needed to hear that.”
At the craft fair, we bought small handmade ornaments and split a bag of cinnamon nuts.
Linda told me stories about Todd as a teenager.
He had once tried to repair a bicycle using parts from three different bikes.
The result had fallen apart before he reached the corner.
I laughed so hard I had to stop walking.
It occurred to me that Todd, too, had once been someone's worried child.
That didn't excuse his treatment of me.
But it made room to know him beyond that one mistake.
I drove carefully.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: The Christmas Tree in My Small Living Room Drew Us Back Together Differently
The Eight Hundred Dollar Basement Offer and the Keys I Chose for Myself
Part 9 of 16
