I waited until the afternoon to call Daniel.
I had finished the laundry and put the clean sheets away.
I had eaten lunch.
I had checked the next bill due date and made a note on the calendar.
I wanted the house quiet and my mind as clear as I could make it.
The notebook sat open on the kitchen table.
I did not need to read it again.
I knew what I wanted to say.
I picked up the telephone and pressed Daniel's number.
As it rang, my heart began to beat faster.
I had spoken to my son hundreds of times.
I had called him about ordinary things, family plans, and household matters.
I had called him when I needed to ask a question.
I had called him when I had something to offer.
This call felt different because I was not calling to solve a problem for him.
I was calling because there was a problem between us.
He did not answer.
I listened to the ringing until the call went to voicemail.
For a moment, I considered leaving a long message.
I could explain everything while I had the chance.
I could tell him that I wanted to talk.
I could tell him that Christmas Eve had hurt me.
I could say that I hoped he would call back.
But I remembered what I had decided.
This was a conversation, not a speech.
I did not want to pour all my feelings into a recording and then spend the rest of the day wondering how he had received them.
I left a short message.
"Daniel, it's Mom. I'd like to talk with you when you have some time. Please call me back."
I paused before ending the message.
I wanted to add that I loved him.
I wanted to say that I was not angry.
I wanted to tell him that I understood how busy he was.
I could feel the old habits lining up, ready to soften the request.
Instead, I ended the message.
I set the phone down and sat still.
I had done what I meant to do.
I had reached out without apologizing for wanting a conversation.
I had not accused him.
I had not demanded an immediate answer.
I had simply asked him to call.
That was enough for the moment.
I closed the notebook and put it in the drawer.
Then I went to the living room and sat by the window.
I tried to read, but I found myself listening for the telephone.
Every time I heard a sound from the kitchen, I thought it might be the phone vibrating.
I checked it once.
There was no response.
I felt disappointed, but I did not call again.
I had left the message.
Daniel knew I wanted to speak.
The next choice belonged to him.
I went back to my book.
I managed a few pages before my mind wandered.
I thought about what I would say if he called back.
I would begin by telling him that I loved him.
I would tell him that I had not come to his house to cause trouble.
I had come to share a holiday with my family.
I would explain how it felt when he told me to leave.
Then I would stop and listen.
I did not know what he would say.
Perhaps he would explain that he had been under pressure.
Perhaps he would tell me that his guests had made him uncomfortable.
Perhaps he would say he had not realized how much the moment would hurt me.
Perhaps he would be angry that I had brought it up.
I could not choose his response.
I could only choose mine.
I wanted to listen carefully without rushing to excuse him.
If he apologized, I wanted to hear the apology without immediately telling him that it was all right.
If he explained himself, I wanted to understand without pretending the explanation erased the hurt.
If he denied that anything had happened, I wanted to remain calm enough to say that the evening had affected me, regardless of whether he had intended it to.
I had never been good at staying in a difficult conversation once I sensed that someone might be unhappy.
I wanted to practice.
The afternoon passed.
I prepared a simple dinner and ate at the kitchen table.
I checked the phone after I finished.
There was still no message.
I felt the old urge to send another text.
I could tell him that I did not want to fight.
I could tell him that I only wanted to clear the air.
I could tell him that I was sorry if I had upset him.
But I had not called to start a fight.
I had called to speak.
I did not need to apologize for that before he had even answered.
I put the phone down and washed my dishes.
Later, I called Helen.
I told her that I had left Daniel a message.
She asked how I felt.
"Nervous," I said.
"That's understandable."
"I keep thinking I should call again."
"Why?"
I considered the question.
Because I wanted to hear from him.
Because I was afraid he would ignore the message.
Because I wanted to make sure he knew I was not trying to attack him.
Because I was uncomfortable with the silence.
I could have given Helen any of those answers.
Instead, I told her the truth.
"Because I'm afraid that if I don't keep reaching out, he'll decide I don't care."
Helen let that sit for a moment.
"Does he know you care?"
"I think so."
"Then maybe you don't have to prove it every hour."
I laughed softly.
It was not a happy laugh, but it helped.
She was right.
Daniel had known my love for his entire life.
I had shown it in a thousand ordinary ways.
I had worked to provide for him.
I had listened to him.
I had helped him when he needed it.
I had continued caring for him long after he became an adult.
I did not need to keep proving that love by refusing to let him take a turn.
If he wanted to talk, he knew how to reach me.
That evening, I turned on the television and watched a program I had recorded.
I did not follow every minute.
My mind still wandered to Daniel.
But I did not keep the phone in my hand.
I placed it on the table beside me.
When the program ended, I went into the kitchen and checked it.
No message.
I felt the disappointment again.
It was becoming familiar.
I did not like it, but I was learning that I could feel it without acting on it.
I went upstairs and changed into my nightclothes.
Before bed, I looked at the family photograph on the dresser.
Daniel was younger in that picture.
He stood beside Richard, smiling at the camera.
I remembered the day it was taken.
We had been together in the backyard.
Richard had complained that the sun was in his eyes.
Daniel had laughed at him.
I had told them both to stand still.
It was an ordinary moment.
No one had known it would become a memory I would return to years later.
I loved the people in that photograph.
I still loved Daniel.
I was not trying to erase the good years because of one painful evening.
I was trying to make room for the truth of what had happened without allowing it to erase everything else.
I turned off the light.
I did not know whether Daniel would return my call.
I did not know whether he was ready to talk.
I did not know whether our relationship would change.
But I had finally reached for the telephone without planning to apologize for being hurt.
That mattered to me.
I had taken one step toward him.
I had not taken ten.
I had left room for him to take the next one.
I slept with the phone downstairs.
If he called during the night, I would hear it in the morning.
I did not need to spend the night guarding it.
For once, I wanted to let myself rest.
Click here to continue reading: PART 20: I Still Loved My Son After Christmas Eve, but I Was No Longer Willing to Pretend That Love Meant Accepting Every Hurt in Silence
I Thought Bringing Christmas Dinner to My Son Would Make Him Happy, Until I Saw the Look on His Face at the Door
Part 19 of 20
