The next day began quietly.
I made breakfast, opened the curtains, and checked the weather.
The forecast called for another cold evening.
I thought about bringing the plant near the window farther into the room so it would not sit in a draft.
I carried it to the small table beside the bookcase.
The leaves looked a little tired.
I watered it carefully and wiped the drops from the table.
It was a small thing, but I liked having something to care for that did not require me to guess what it wanted.
The plant needed water.
It needed light.
It needed the right amount of attention.
It did not ask me to prove that I loved it by giving it everything I had.
I almost laughed at myself for making that comparison.
Still, the thought stayed with me.
I had spent years treating my relationship with Daniel as though it depended on how much I could provide.
I had given money, time, food, and attention.
I had made room in my plans.
I had tried to anticipate what might make his life easier.
But I could not provide the one thing I wanted most.
I could not provide his willingness to meet me halfway.
That had to come from him.
I made another cup of tea and sat down.
The telephone was on the counter.
I looked at it.
Then I looked away.
I had told myself that I was prepared for silence.
I had told myself that I could live my life whether Daniel called or not.
Those things were true in one sense.
I could cook my meals.
I could pay my bills.
I could speak with Helen.
I could take walks and read books and keep my house in order.
But I was not prepared to stop wanting my son's voice.
I missed the ordinary things.
I missed hearing him tell me about something that had happened during his day.
I missed asking whether the children were doing well.
I missed the little moments when he called simply because he had a few minutes.
I could not make myself stop loving those moments just because I had been hurt.
For a while, I sat with the telephone in front of me.
I wondered whether I should call him.
I could ask how everyone was doing.
I could say that I hoped they had enjoyed the holiday.
I could make the conversation pleasant and avoid the difficult subject.
It would be easy.
I knew exactly how to do it.
I had spent years keeping conversations light when I was afraid that honesty might create distance.
But I also knew how I would feel afterward.
I would listen for signs that he was happy to hear from me.
I would study his tone.
I would decide whether to mention Christmas Eve based on how the first few minutes went.
If he sounded distracted, I might leave it alone.
If he sounded cheerful, I might not want to spoil the moment.
If he asked about something else, I might follow his lead and never get to what I needed to say.
Then I would hang up and tell myself that at least we had spoken.
The hurt would remain.
I put the telephone back on the counter.
I was not ready to call him simply to make the silence stop.
I wanted our next conversation to mean something more than that.
That did not mean I would wait forever.
It meant I needed to choose a moment when I could speak honestly instead of reaching for the quickest relief.
Later, I went to the grocery store.
I bought bread, milk, apples, and a few things for dinner.
At the checkout, the woman behind me recognized me from the neighborhood.
She asked how my holiday had gone.
I felt the familiar urge to smile and say it had been lovely.
The answer was ready before I had even thought about it.
Then I paused.
"It was harder than I expected," I said.
She looked at me with concern.
"I'm sorry to hear that."
I nodded.
I did not tell her the whole story.
She was a neighbor, not a close friend.
I did not need to share every detail.
But I had told one small truth instead of hiding everything behind a cheerful answer.
It felt strange.
It also felt honest.
On the drive home, I thought about how often I had used the phrase "I'm fine."
Sometimes I said it because I did not want to burden anyone.
Sometimes I said it because I did not know how to explain what I was feeling.
Sometimes I said it because I hoped that if I acted as though I was fine, the feeling would pass.
But there were times when "I'm fine" became a way to deny another person the chance to understand me.
I had done that with Daniel, too.
I had told him not to worry when I was worried.
I had told him I could manage when I was struggling.
I had said that helping was no trouble when it required me to change my own plans.
I had thought I was being kind.
Perhaps I had also been trying to avoid the risk of hearing that he could not help me.
It was easier to pretend I needed nothing than to ask and be disappointed.
That was a painful thing to admit.
I had not created Daniel's behavior.
I had not made him close the door.
But I had helped create a pattern in which my own needs were rarely spoken aloud.
I could take responsibility for that without blaming myself for his choices.
I could learn to speak more clearly.
I could learn to ask for what I needed.
I could learn that another person's response was not a measure of whether the request had been fair.
When I got home, I put the groceries away.
I made lunch and ate at the table.
Then I sat down with the notebook and wrote a new sentence.
I can tell the truth without demanding a particular answer.
I read it slowly.
That was what I wanted to remember if Daniel and I spoke.
I could tell him that he had hurt me.
I could explain that I had come with food and gifts because I wanted to share Christmas.
I could tell him that I understood he had guests, but I did not understand why he had treated me as an embarrassment.
I could say that I loved him.
I could say that I wanted our relationship to improve.
Then I would have to let him respond.
He might apologize.
He might explain himself.
He might become defensive.
He might tell me that I had misunderstood.
I could not choose his answer for him.
I could only choose whether I was going to hide mine.
The thought made me nervous.
It also made me feel more like myself.
In the afternoon, I took a book into the living room and tried to read.
I managed several pages before realizing I had not understood a word.
My mind had wandered back to Daniel.
I closed the book and set it on the table.
I did not scold myself for thinking about him.
Healing was not a straight line.
I could have a good morning and a difficult afternoon.
I could feel strong one moment and lonely the next.
I did not need to treat every return of sadness as proof that I was failing.
I looked at Richard's photograph on the shelf.
I wondered what he would say if he saw me now, sitting alone and trying to decide whether I was allowed to be hurt by my own child.
I could almost hear him telling me to stop being so hard on myself.
He had known how much I loved Daniel.
He had never doubted that.
But he had also known that I could give until I had nothing left and still tell myself that I should have done more.
I wished I had listened when he tried to remind me to take care of myself.
I wished he were here to tell me that I did not need to solve this alone.
Instead, I had Helen.
I had my own judgment.
I had the memories of a life in which I had already faced loss and learned to keep going.
Those things would have to be enough for now.
That evening, I made soup.
I set the table and sat down to eat.
The kitchen was warm.
The red gift bag was still in the spare room.
I had stopped looking at it every day, but I had not decided what to do with it.
I knew I would eventually have to make a choice.
For now, I was letting it remain what it was: a collection of gifts chosen with love.
I did not need to destroy them to prove that I had been hurt.
I did not need to deliver them to Daniel to prove that I still loved him.
I could wait until I knew what felt right.
After dinner, I checked the telephone one more time.
There was no message.
I felt the disappointment settle in my chest.
I let myself miss him.
Then I put the telephone away and washed my cup.
I was still a mother.
I was still a woman who wanted her son to call.
But I was also Margaret Whitmore, a person with a home, a history, and a life that deserved attention even when Daniel was silent.
I had prepared myself to hear nothing from him.
I had not prepared myself to stop wanting his voice.
I no longer thought I needed to.
I could want to hear from him and still refuse to chase him.
I could hope he would reach out and still make plans for my own day.
I could leave room for him without standing at the door of my life, waiting for him to decide whether I belonged.
That night, I went to bed with the telephone on the kitchen counter.
I did not bring it upstairs.
I wanted the bedroom to be a place where I could rest instead of waiting.
It was a small change.
But it was mine.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: I Could Not Make Daniel Understand What He Had Done, but I Was Finally Ready to Stop Hiding What It Had Cost Me
I Thought Bringing Christmas Dinner to My Son Would Make Him Happy, Until I Saw the Look on His Face at the Door
Part 15 of 20
