The watercolor class cost ninety dollars for six sessions.
I paid the fee on Monday morning.
Then I drove to the hardware store and asked for an estimate on repairing my back porch railing.
The man behind the counter recommended a local carpenter named Nathan.
I called him that afternoon.
He came two days later carrying a measuring tape and a clipboard.
He checked the posts, the stairs, and the boards along the edge.
“It's repairable,” he said.
“You don't need a new porch.”
I liked him immediately.
He showed me the soft wood under one corner and explained which pieces should be replaced.
He gave me a written estimate.
I put it in the kitchen drawer beside the canceled payment confirmation.
When David called that evening, I told him about the repairs.
“I can do those,” he said.
“I know you can do some of them.”
“Then why hire someone?”
“Because Nathan can start next week, and I want the railing safe before spring.”
“I could come Saturday.”
I considered it.
“I appreciate the offer.”
He sounded pleased until I added, “But I'm going to use the carpenter.”
“Don't you trust me?”
“I trust you to love me.”
I smiled at the phone.
“I'm not asking you to become my contractor.”
He was silent.
Then he said, “Fair enough.”
The children visited on Saturday morning.
David brought them over with backpacks and a list of Mia's food preferences.
I had agreed to keep them until two.
We made pancakes.
Leo measured flour and spilled a little on the counter.
Mia insisted on adding blueberries in a smiley face.
After breakfast, we planted seeds in paper cups near the kitchen window.
Leo asked why the seeds were buried.
“So the roots can grow,” I told him.
“Can they grow if the cup is too small?”
“Only for a while.”
He thought about that.
“Then we have to move them when they get big.”
“Exactly.”
He looked satisfied with the answer.
I wished grown people learned their lessons so easily.
At one-thirty, David texted to say he was running late because of an errand.
He asked whether three would be all right.
I had planned to leave at two-thirty for the class-supply shop.
I replied that I needed him by two.
He said he would try.
I called him.
“David, we agreed on two.”
“I know. I'm stuck.”
“Do you need me to bring them to you?”
He gave me the address of a shopping center fifteen minutes away.
I packed the children's bags and drove there.
David was standing outside a furniture store with Rachel.
They looked surprised when we arrived.
“Mom, I meant I was doing an errand,” he said.
“I know.”
I looked at the store sign.
Apparently they were browsing for a new dining-room cabinet.
Mia ran toward Rachel.
Leo asked if there was ice cream nearby.
I helped buckle the children into their parents' car.
The next morning I made a list of things I wanted to learn.
Watercolor was at the top.
Below it I wrote repairing small household items, baking sourdough bread, and identifying the birds that visited my garden.
I had no intention of mastering everything.
The list made me curious.
I went to the library and borrowed a field guide.
On the walk home I noticed two birds perched on a telephone wire.
I was unable to identify either one.
I wrote a description on a scrap of paper.
Later I discovered they were starlings.
It was not an important discovery.
It was mine.
I also looked into a short course on home maintenance offered by the community center.
The instructor demonstrated how to check a leaking tap and replace a worn washer.
I joined five other people around a table of tools.
One man had recently moved into his first apartment.
Another woman had inherited a house from her aunt.
Nobody asked whether I was retired or a grandmother.
We were all beginners at something.
I learned how to turn off a water supply before working on a fitting.
I learned to recognize when a repair should be left to a licensed professional.
At home, I tightened the loose handle on my hallway cupboard.
It took six minutes.
I stood back and opened the door twice to admire it.
I sent Elaine a photograph.
She replied with a string of celebratory exclamation marks.
I laughed aloud.
Later, when David offered to do every repair in the house, I explained that I enjoyed learning too.
He smiled at that.
“Dad would have liked it,” he said.
“I think so.”
I wasn't trying to prove I needed nobody.
I was learning that accepting help and expecting help were not the same thing.
Then I handed David the seed cups.
“You can put them on the kitchen windowsill.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Sorry I was late.”
“You weren't late yet,” I said.
“But I wasn't available to wait indefinitely.”
Rachel shifted beside him.
“It's hard to look at furniture with the kids.”
“I understand.”
She seemed to expect another sentence.
I didn't add one.
At the supply shop, I chose a basic watercolor set and two brushes.
I spent half an hour comparing paper.
Nobody hurried me.
At my first class, the instructor asked us to paint the cup of water in front of us.
I made the rim too thick.
My blue paint ran into the shadow.
A woman named June sitting beside me showed me how to blot the excess with tissue.
We laughed at the mess on our fingers.
For an hour and a half, I was bad at something harmless.
It felt wonderful.
After class, June asked whether I wanted coffee.
We went to a small café on the corner.
She had recently moved to town after her divorce.
She was learning which streets flooded when it rained.
I told her where to buy good vegetables and which library had the quietest reading room.
She asked whether I lived alone.
“Yes,” I said.
“My husband died three years ago.”
She offered a simple condolence and did not immediately change the subject.
We talked about books instead.
At home, David had sent a photograph of Leo's seed cup.
It sat beside the kitchen window.
He wrote, He says you saved the whole experiment.
I smiled.
I was beginning to understand a useful difference.
I could keep giving the children good memories.
I did not have to give away every unclaimed hour of my life to do it.
A few days later, Rachel called about a different problem.
Her company had announced changes to the staff schedule.
She would be working two later shifts each week.
She wanted to know whether I could collect the children on both days.
I told her we should discuss a predictable arrangement, not assume one.
She sounded disappointed.
Then she said, “Can we talk about it with David on Friday?”
This time, she was asking rather than deciding.
I said yes.
Click here to continue reading: PART 8: The Childcare Calendar That Helped Us Separate Grandmotherly Love from Daily Obligation
The Sunday I Put Down the Greasy Plates and Walked Out Without an Explanation
Part 7 of 16
