The closer Christmas Eve came, the harder it became to think of the date as ordinary.
I knew the day would arrive whether I understood Wendell's plans or not.
The calendar would move forward.
The hours would pass.
And eventually, I would have to stop wondering what the yellow paper meant and let the answer come from him.
I wanted that answer.
I was also afraid of what it might ask of me.
It is one thing to imagine that someone is preparing something kind.
It is another thing to stand in front of that person and learn what they have actually been trying to say.
A surprise can be lovely.
It can also reveal how much two people have misunderstood each other.
I didn't want to decide which kind of moment waited for us.
I wanted to let it happen.
Still, I found myself thinking about the garage whenever the house grew quiet.
I could see the photographs.
I could see the paper held up with blue painter's tape.
I could picture Wendell's pencil resting behind his ear.
The sawdust on his old blue work shirt had seemed like such an ordinary detail at the time.
Now I remembered it because it reminded me that he had been in the middle of work when I saw him.
He hadn't been standing there waiting for me to discover anything.
Or perhaps he had expected me to see something eventually.
I didn't know.
I had to stop myself from turning every small detail into a clue.
Not everything was a clue.
Sometimes a pencil was just a pencil.
Sometimes paint was just paint.
And sometimes the most important thing in a room was not the object itself but the conversation that had not yet happened around it.
That was what I needed from Wendell.
A conversation.
Not another vague reassurance.
Not another stretch of time in which I had to decide what his silence meant.
I wanted to understand why the date mattered.
I wanted to understand why he had written those three words.
And I wanted to understand why he had kept me away from his house for so long.
I didn't think those were unreasonable questions.
I also knew that the answers might be complicated.
I could accept that.
I had lived through enough of life to know that the truth was not always simple.
People carried memories they struggled to share.
They made decisions out of fear.
They waited too long because they believed they were protecting someone.
Sometimes they were protecting themselves instead.
I couldn't know whether any of that described Wendell.
I didn't want to put motives into his heart without hearing him speak.
But I wanted him to understand that the effect of his silence had been real, regardless of what he intended.
I had wondered whether I belonged in his life.
I had wondered whether he trusted me.
I had wondered whether I was being patient or merely afraid to ask for what I needed.
Those questions had occupied more of my thoughts than I wanted to admit.
I didn't blame him for every uneasy feeling I had carried.
Some of those feelings came from my own past.
Some came from the loss of Dwight.
Some came from the simple truth that beginning again was difficult.
But Wendell and I had created this particular uncertainty together, even if neither of us had meant to.
And we would have to find our way through it together, too.
I thought about Dwight and the life we had shared.
For years, I had known what it meant to belong to someone else's daily routine.
I had known the comfort of being expected.
I had known the small security of hearing another person's footsteps and recognizing them without looking up.
When that life ended, I had wondered whether I would ever feel that kind of closeness again.
I hadn't expected to find it with Wendell.
I hadn't expected to care about another man's questions, his habits, or the things he chose not to say.
But I did.
That was why the paper mattered.
If Wendell had been a casual acquaintance, I would not have spent so much time thinking about his house.
I would not have remembered his expression in the garage.
I would not have wondered what he meant by calling me his Winnie.
I cared because he mattered to me.
And because he mattered, I needed to be honest about what I felt.
I could not ask him to make me feel safe every minute.
No one could promise that.
But I could ask him not to leave me guessing about something that touched our relationship.
I could ask him to trust me with the truth.
I could offer him the same in return.
That seemed fair.
As I went through the days before Christmas, I tried to make room for the holiday itself.
I didn't want every thought to circle back to the garage.
I wanted to remember the parts of the season that had always mattered to me.
The familiar routines.
The small preparations.
The memories that arrived without being invited.
Some of those memories made me smile.
Others left a quiet ache behind.
I had stopped expecting grief to follow a schedule.
It came when it came.
Sometimes it appeared in the middle of an ordinary task.
Sometimes it stayed away for hours, then returned because of a song or a date.
I could love Wendell and still miss Dwight.
I could look forward to Christmas and still feel the weight of the Christmases that had passed.
There was no need to choose one feeling and reject the other.
I wished I had understood that sooner.
It might have saved me from treating happiness as something I needed to apologize for.
Wendell had never asked me to forget Dwight.
That was one of the things I valued about him.
He had listened when I spoke about my husband.
He had allowed my memories to remain part of the conversation.
I wanted to offer Wendell that same kind of room.
I wanted him to know he could tell me something difficult without having to make it sound perfect.
But he had to tell me.
I couldn't listen to words he never spoke.
That thought stayed with me.
It was simple.
It was fair.
And it reminded me that love was not only about being gentle with another person.
It was also about being brave enough to let them know where you stood.
I had been gentle.
Now I needed to be brave.
I didn't have to rehearse the conversation every night.
I didn't have to prepare for every possible answer.
I only had to remember the things I knew were true.
I cared about Wendell.
I wanted to understand him.
I needed honesty.
And I was willing to listen.
Those four things were enough to carry into the next conversation.
I still hoped December 24 would bring something good.
I hoped the yellow paper had been written with affection.
I hoped the photographs and the paint belonged to something Wendell wanted to share with me.
But I wasn't going to let hope answer the questions before he did.
I had made that mistake too many times in my own mind.
This time, I wanted to be present for the truth.
Whatever it was, I wanted to hear it from him.
The yellow paper remained a small, bright image in my memory.
Three words.
One date.
A piece of painter's tape at each side.
It wasn't enough to tell me what would happen.
But it was enough to remind me that a conversation was waiting.
I could let that be true without making it frightening.
For now, I would wait for the day to arrive.
I would keep living my life.
And when Wendell was ready to speak, I would be ready to hear him.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: When Christmas Eve Finally Came, I Wanted to Believe the Yellow Paper Was an Invitation Instead of Another Question I Had to Carry
I Thought the Hardest Thing About Losing My Husband Was Learning to Sleep Alone Until Another Man Made Me Question Everything
Part 16 of 20
