Derek called the following morning.
I was still in my robe, looking at the reservation email on my laptop.
“Mom, what do you mean you're not cooking Christmas?”
“I mean I have other plans.”
“What plans?”
“I'm going to Portugal.”
He laughed.
When I didn't laugh with him, he stopped.
“Portugal? In December?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“About eight weeks.”
There was a long silence.
“Does Cassandra know?”
“I'm telling you. You can tell your wife.”
He sighed.
“We already have people coming.”
“Then you'll need to plan dinner.”
His voice tightened.
“After everything, you're just abandoning Christmas?”
I looked at the photograph from New Zealand displayed beside my desk.
“I haven't promised Christmas dinner.”
“You always do it.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
He asked whether Cassandra's remark at Thanksgiving was the reason.
I told him it was part of a larger pattern.
He repeated that she hadn't meant to hurt me.
“Derek, she said I had no personality beyond cooking and cleaning.”
“She was teasing.”
“Were you laughing?”
He didn't answer.
“Do you know what I wanted to talk about that night?” I asked.
He said no.
“My trip to New Zealand. Someone asked me a question. I was enjoying answering it.”
“Mom, you're making this bigger than it was.”
“Perhaps it looked small from your seat.”
He went quiet.
I told him I needed to end the call.
Then I showered and began preparing for my trip.
I checked the renewal date on my passport.
I reviewed the rules for a temporary stay in Portugal.
I bought travel medical insurance and read the exclusions carefully.
I spoke with my doctor about prescriptions.
I asked a neighbor to collect mail and another friend to keep an eye on the house.
I didn't want my decision to become another project someone else had to rescue.
On Monday, Cassandra sent a message.
I hear you're running off to Europe because of one joke.
I read it and put the phone down.
An hour later, she sent another.
Are you really leaving us to feed everyone ourselves?
I responded with the dates of my absence and a simple statement that I would not host or cook holiday meals this year.
I did not defend my character.
I did not list every favor I'd done.
For the first time, I had nothing to gain by entering that argument.
Then my daughter Joanna called.
She had always lived farther away and usually tried not to become involved in disagreements with Derek.
“I heard about Portugal,” she said.
“I'm guessing the family grapevine has been busy.”
“Are you okay?”
I told her the truth.
I was excited.
I was scared.
I was angry about Thanksgiving.
And I was embarrassed by how long I had let my own plans disappear beneath everyone else's requests.
Joanna listened.
“Mom, you should go.”
Her voice became gentler.
“But tell me honestly. Are you going because you want to see Portugal or because you want to punish Derek?”
I considered the question.
“A little of both, at first.”
“And now?”
“Now I want to go because I've wanted to go for years.”
“Then send pictures.”
We talked about her work and my grandchildren.
We planned a video call for Christmas morning.
When the call ended, I was grateful she hadn't tried to solve my family problems.
She had simply asked what I wanted.
The week before my flight, Derek appeared on my porch.
He had driven from Charlotte without telling me.
His hair was damp from the rain.
“Can we talk?”
I invited him inside.
He looked around at the half-packed suitcase in the hallway.
“So it's real.”
“Yes.”
He sat at the kitchen table where he had once done his homework.
“I think you're overreacting.”
“That's your opinion.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Do you know how difficult the holidays are with the kids and both sides of the family?”
“I remember raising two children while working full-time after your father died.”
He looked down.
I didn't say it to compete over suffering.
I said it because he seemed to have forgotten that I had a life before I became his convenient holiday cook.
We talked for nearly an hour.
He admitted that he sometimes let Cassandra speak for both of them.
He said he had assumed I'd rather cook than sit and talk.
“Did you ever ask?”
“No.”
I nodded.
“I would have told you.”
When he asked whether I could prepare a few dishes to freeze before I left, I declined.
He looked disappointed.
I suggested he use one of my recipe cards.
The cards were in a tin by the stove.
He opened the tin and turned through them.
There was his favorite stuffing recipe.
The pie instructions were written in my mother's handwriting.
He held the card for a long moment.
“Can I borrow this?”
“You can take a photograph.”
He did.
At the door he hugged me.
Then he said, “I hope you have fun.”
It was the first time he'd said anything like that about my trip.
On departure day, I drove to the airport before sunrise.
I checked in one suitcase.
I carried a small backpack with my medication and travel documents.
As the plane lifted off, I watched the lights of Raleigh grow smaller.
I was leaving people I loved.
I was also moving toward a life I had spent years postponing.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: In a Small Portuguese Town, I Learned to Be a Mother Without Giving Up My Own Life
The Thanksgiving Joke That Sent Me Toward a Life of My Own
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