The first morning in Óbidos, I woke to the sound of church bells.
My rented home had white walls and blue shutters.
There was a little courtyard outside the kitchen.
I made coffee and sat beside its stone wall.
No one expected me to cook a turkey.
No one was waiting for me to iron a shirt.
I had no list of other people's errands.
For several minutes, that freedom felt unfamiliar.
Then I went for a walk.
I followed a narrow street past a bakery.
A shopkeeper greeted me in Portuguese.
I stumbled through the phrase I'd practiced on the plane.
She smiled and corrected my pronunciation.
I bought a pastry and ate it on a bench.
The town was not a postcard without problems.
It rained.
The cobblestones were slippery.
Some restaurants closed earlier than expected.
The first grocery trip took twice as long because I didn't recognize the brands.
I learned to carry a reusable bag and wear shoes with a reliable grip.
I also learned that ordinary difficulties could become part of an adventure when I wasn't rushing home to take care of someone else.
During the second week, I joined a small walking tour.
One woman, Marianne, was a retired teacher from Canada.
Another, Sofia, lived nearby and painted watercolors.
They invited me to lunch.
When I told them I had worked in a dental practice for thirty years, they asked what I had liked about it.
Then they asked what I wanted to do now.
I told them about painting.
Sofia suggested a class at a community studio.
I signed up the next morning.
My first painting was terrible.
The church tower tilted.
The sky looked like a gray blanket.
I laughed so hard that I nearly spilled my water cup.
Sofia helped me start again.
At the end of the class, I took the picture home anyway.
I taped it above my desk.
I had made something simply because I wanted to.
Meanwhile, Derek's messages changed.
At first he sent questions about roasting times and side dishes.
I gave him brief answers when I knew them.
I reminded him that he could find detailed recipes in the photographs he'd taken.
He told me the first practice turkey had been too dry.
I told him the next one might be better.
He sent a picture of the kitchen covered in flour.
I laughed.
Cassandra remained cool.
She posted a photograph of the decorated Christmas table with a caption about making new traditions.
I didn't respond publicly.
I had no desire to turn my relationship with my son into a contest on social media.
A week before Christmas, he called again.
“Mom, I wanted to apologize for Thanksgiving.”
I sat down beside the courtyard window.
“I'm listening.”
“I should have said something when Cassie made that comment.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I knew it bothered you. I didn't want a fight.”
I waited.
“I let you be the one who felt uncomfortable so I wouldn't have to.”
That was specific enough to mean something.
He said he had begun noticing how often he asked me to help without checking my schedule.
He apologized for assuming my retirement belonged to the family.
I thanked him.
I also told him an apology would not mean returning to the old arrangements.
He said he understood.
I hoped he did.
Time would tell.
On Christmas morning, I called Joanna first.
She showed me her children's gifts and asked whether I was painting that day.
Then I called Derek.
The grandchildren shouted over one another.
They wanted to see the courtyard.
One asked whether Portugal had reindeer.
I told him I hadn't seen any.
Derek showed me the turkey he'd cooked himself.
It looked wonderfully uneven.
“It's not yours,” he admitted.
“It's yours,” I said.
He smiled.
Cassandra came to the screen briefly.
She wished me a merry Christmas.
Her tone was polite but reserved.
That was enough for the moment.
I spent the afternoon walking with Marianne.
We visited a church and stopped for tea.
I thought about the Christmases I'd spent serving everyone until the evening was nearly over.
I didn't regret loving my family.
I regretted believing love required me to be available every minute.
My eight-week stay passed quickly.
Before returning home, I took photographs of the blue shutters, the bakery, and my favorite view across the old walls.
I packed three paintings.
One was still terrible.
I kept it anyway.
When I arrived in Raleigh, the house was just as I'd left it.
My neighbor had collected the mail.
The plants were alive.
I unpacked slowly.
Derek called two days later and asked whether we could have lunch.
He offered to drive to Raleigh.
That was new.
At lunch, he asked about my travels before discussing his own problems.
I told him about Sofia and the painting class.
He listened all the way through.
Then he asked whether I planned to travel again.
“Yes,” I said.
“I've been thinking about Ireland.”
He smiled.
“Send me a picture when you go.”
We were not a perfect family.
Cassandra still sometimes made comments that stung.
Derek still occasionally needed reminding that my calendar belonged to me.
But he had begun asking before making plans.
And I had begun answering without guilt.
Later that spring, I hung my crooked painting in the hallway.
The church tower leaned to the left.
I could have tried to correct it.
Instead, I let it remind me of the trip that began with one difficult Thanksgiving dinner.
When my grandchildren visited, one pointed to it.
“Grandma, why is the tower crooked?”
“Because I was learning.”
He considered that.
“Can I try?”
I brought out paper and paints.
We sat together at the kitchen table.
This time, no one asked me to scrub the dishes while other people enjoyed the afternoon.
I was exactly where I wanted to be.
THE END
The End
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