The days after the phone call were the hardest.
Not because I regretted what I'd said.
I didn't.
I regretted the way I'd said it, and I regretted that Michelle and I had reached a point where a conversation about rent could end with us hanging up on each other.
But I couldn't pretend the offer hadn't hurt.
I couldn't make myself believe that eight hundred dollars and four days of childcare was a reasonable arrangement simply because my daughter had proposed it.
I kept thinking about how easily I might have agreed if I had been more frightened.
That thought bothered me.
I had been frightened enough already.
The farmhouse was no longer mine to stay in.
November first was coming.
I had no husband to share the worry with, no second income, and no other child to call.
If I hadn't found the little house, I might have accepted whatever was offered because I didn't see another choice.
I didn't want to live the rest of my life making decisions out of fear.
Still, knowing that didn't make the loneliness easier.
For ten days, Michelle didn't call.
I didn't call her, either.
There were no messages.
No quick questions about whether I needed groceries.
No pictures of the children doing something silly.
Nothing.
I kept checking my phone even though I told myself I wasn't waiting for it to ring.
The worst part was how ordinary everything else remained.
The sun came up.
The grain trucks lined up.
The postman brought bills and advertisements.
I still had to wash dishes and buy milk.
Life kept moving, even when one part of it had gone quiet.
Every evening, I sat on the porch swing.
I watched the trucks approach the elevator, stop, and move forward when it was their turn.
Sometimes I counted them.
Sometimes I watched the dust drift behind their tires.
The swing creaked when I shifted my weight.
I began to recognize that sound as well.
The house was becoming familiar.
I knew which kitchen drawer stuck.
I knew how much coffee to put in the pot for one person.
I knew the exact spot beside the window where the afternoon light fell across the floor.
I had made a home.
But I was missing my grandchildren.
That was the truth I couldn't talk myself out of.
I missed Sadie asking whether I was going to sleep under the house.
I missed the little hands that used to reach for mine.
I missed the noise, even the noise that sometimes made it difficult to hear the television.
I wondered whether Michelle was keeping the children away because she was angry or because she thought it was better for them not to get involved.
I didn't know.
I tried not to imagine what she was telling them.
I didn't want them to think Grandma had disappeared because she no longer wanted to see them.
They were too young to understand a disagreement about money.
They only knew who came to visit and who didn't.
Some nights, I sat at the kitchen table with Dale's photograph in front of me.
He had been gone almost two years, but there were still moments when I turned toward the empty chair as if he might be sitting there.
I wondered what he would have said about Michelle's offer.
I could almost hear him clearing his throat before giving his opinion.
He never liked making people feel small.
He also didn't believe that family members should have to surrender their dignity to prove they loved one another.
But Dale wasn't there.
I had to make my own decisions.
I reminded myself of that whenever I began to doubt.
The house was modest.
The rent was five hundred and fifty dollars, with electricity on top of it.
I watched my spending.
I made soup that lasted two days.
I turned off lights when I left a room.
I didn't buy anything I didn't need.
The little house didn't make me rich.
It made my choices possible.
That distinction mattered.
On the tenth day, I was sitting at the kitchen table just before supper.
I'd been sorting through some papers and had put my bills into a neat stack.
I was about to start peeling potatoes when I heard a vehicle slow outside.
Then came the sound of a door slamming.
I looked through the window.
A pickup had stopped near the porch.
Michelle climbed out of the passenger side.
I hadn't seen her in ten days.
Even from the window, I could tell she'd been crying.
Her eyes looked swollen, and her face was pale.
She stood beside the truck for a moment, looking at the house.
Todd got out next.
He walked around the front of the vehicle and joined her.
He was carrying a yellow legal pad.
I noticed it because the pages were filled with handwriting.
Not a few notes.
The whole first page was covered from top to bottom.
He held it against his side as they came up the walk.
I didn't know what they wanted.
I didn't know whether Michelle had come to argue again or whether Todd had brought some new calculation to explain why his offer had been fair.
I only knew that my daughter was standing outside my front door with tears on her face.
I put the potato peeler down.
For a moment, I considered letting them knock.
Then I thought about the ten days of silence.
Whatever had brought them here, I didn't want to begin by making them stand outside.
I crossed the room and opened the screen door.
Michelle looked at me.
Her mouth moved, but no words came out.
Todd stepped forward.
He didn't look at the porch swing or the little flowerpot beside the door.
He looked directly at me.
"Judy, there's something I need to tell you before we talk about anything else."
I moved aside to let them in.
Todd walked to the kitchen table and placed the yellow legal pad on it.
The sight of that paper brought me straight back to Michelle's kitchen.
The notebook sheet.
The dark circles around eight hundred dollars.
The way Todd had stared at the salt shaker rather than at me.
He turned the legal pad so I could see the writing.
Then he took a breath.
"I'm the one who came up with that eight-hundred-dollar amount," he said. "Michelle didn't."
I looked at my daughter.
She lowered her eyes.
I had spent ten days wondering whether she'd ever understood why I'd chosen this house.
Now Todd was standing in my kitchen, admitting that the number I'd carried away from her table had been his idea.
I pulled out a chair and sat down.
The legal pad lay between us.
And for the first time since that Saturday afternoon, I waited to hear what they had come to say.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Yellow Legal Pad Held More Than an Apology, and Todd Finally Looked Me in the Eye
The Number My Son-in-Law Circled Twice and the Question I Was Too Afraid to Answer at My Daughter’s Table
Part 4 of 20
