A week later, I decided to invite Valerie to lunch.
I did not know whether she would accept.
I also did not know whether it was wise to try.
But I missed my daughter.
Not the daughter who called whenever a bill was due.
Not the woman who had told me I was not important enough to attend her wedding.
I missed the person I used to talk to about ordinary things.
I missed hearing about her work, her friends, and the small details of her day.
I missed being able to ask a question without wondering whether she would turn it into an argument about money.
So I called her.
"Would you like to come over for lunch on Sunday?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"Why?"
The question stung.
"Because I'd like to see you."
"Are we going to talk about the apartment?"
"We can talk about whatever we need to talk about. But I don't want the whole visit to be about bills."
She took a breath.
"I'll ask Brandon."
I told her that was fine.
We ended the call without making a definite plan.
For the rest of the week, I tried not to think about it too much.
I continued working.
I kept my appointments.
I reviewed the documents when necessary and left them alone when there was nothing new to do.
The red folder remained on the kitchen table, but I no longer opened it every morning.
I was learning to let the matter occupy its proper place in my life.
On Saturday, I went grocery shopping.
I bought chicken, potatoes, green beans, and ingredients for sweet iced tea.
I did not know whether Valerie would come.
I bought enough for two people anyway.
There was no reason to punish myself for hoping.
On Sunday morning, I cleaned the kitchen and set the table.
I took the good tablecloth from the cupboard.
For a moment, I held it in my hands and remembered the first lunch.
Valerie had sat in the same chair.
She had tasted the food before telling me she had already married.
I had spent the rest of that day discovering what she had kept from me.
The memory still hurt.
But I did not want to let it decide every meal I would ever share with my daughter.
I spread the tablecloth across the table.
Then I placed two plates beside each other.
I made the chicken and prepared the vegetables.
The house filled with the smell of food.
I brewed the tea and set a pitcher in the refrigerator.
By noon, I was ready.
Valerie had not confirmed whether she was coming.
I checked my phone once.
There was no message.
I sat down and waited.
At twelve fifteen, the phone rang.
It was Valerie.
"Mom, I'm sorry. We can't make it today."
I looked at the empty chair.
"Is everything all right?"
She said they had something to take care of.
She did not explain further.
I felt disappointment rise, but I tried to keep my voice steady.
"All right, sweetheart. Maybe another time."
She thanked me for understanding.
Then she asked whether I had received any new information about the lease.
I closed my eyes.
Even now.
"I haven't received a final answer," I told her. "I'm following up through Mr. Harrison."
She sighed.
"Okay."
There was a pause.
Then she said she had to go.
I wished her a good afternoon.
She ended the call.
I sat at the table for a few minutes, looking at the two plates.
The food was ready.
The tea was cold.
The house was quiet.
I could have called her back and asked her to come anyway.
I could have offered to pay for something in exchange for another chance to see her.
I could have told her how much it hurt that she had canceled without much explanation.
Instead, I stood up and put one of the plates away.
I packed the extra food into containers and placed them in the refrigerator.
I poured myself a glass of tea and sat down alone.
It was a good meal.
That made the loneliness feel worse for a moment.
Then I reminded myself that an empty chair did not mean I had failed.
I had offered an invitation.
Valerie had made a choice.
I could not make the choice for her.
After lunch, I washed the dishes and folded the tablecloth.
I returned it to the cupboard, but not to the back.
I wanted to use it again.
The rest of the afternoon passed quietly.
I read for a while, then watered the plants near the window.
Around four, Valerie sent me a message.
She apologized for canceling and said she hoped we could arrange another visit soon.
I told her I would like that.
I did not ask for a date.
I did not ask why she had canceled.
I let the conversation end there.
Later, I sat at the kitchen table and reviewed the notes I had made about the apartment and the marriage records.
I checked the dates.
I made sure the copies were in the right sections.
Then I closed the red folder.
I was still waiting for answers.
I still did not know who had signed the renewal letter.
I still did not know whether my name appeared on the marriage certificate as a witness.
I had not forgotten those questions.
But I was no longer allowing them to consume every hour of every day.
There were other parts of my life worth protecting.
My work.
My home.
My savings.
My peace.
And, if Valerie was willing, our relationship.
I could leave the door open without standing in the doorway forever.
That evening, I looked at the family photograph on the shelf.
I did not take it down.
I did not turn it toward the wall.
I left it where it was.
The girl in the picture was still my daughter.
The woman she had become was responsible for her own decisions.
Both things were true.
I could love the child I remembered without pretending the adult had done nothing to hurt me.
I could hope for reconciliation without making another payment to buy it.
And I could welcome Valerie into my home whenever she was ready to come honestly.
For the first time in weeks, I felt no urge to call her.
I turned off the kitchen light and went to bed.
The two plates were clean.
The tablecloth was folded.
The red folder was closed.
Nothing had been resolved.
But I had made room for something besides waiting.
I had made room for myself.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The Papers on My Kitchen Table Finally Forced Me to Decide What Love Could No Longer Pay For
The Sunday Lunch When My Daughter Finally Answered the Question I Had Been Afraid to Ask
Part 16 of 20
