The following week was quieter.
Zach didn't call to ask about Wendell's finances.
Megan didn't warn me about being lonely.
I went to the senior center, bought groceries, and spent an afternoon helping Carla sort through old photographs she'd found in a box.
Life returned to its ordinary pace.
I was grateful.
There is only so much uncertainty a person can carry before even a simple trip to the grocery store starts to feel like work.
On Thursday, Wendell came over for supper.
I made meatloaf and roasted carrots.
He brought a bag of apples from the store.
I told him he was becoming predictable.
He said that was better than becoming unreliable.
I laughed.
We ate in the kitchen.
Afterward, we sat in the living room while the evening news played on the television.
Wendell was quiet.
I asked whether he was tired.
"A little."
"Have you been working on the house again?"
He nodded.
"Just a few things."
I studied his face.
He looked worn out, but not in the way he had before.
I was beginning to recognize the difference between ordinary tiredness and the kind that came from pushing himself too hard.
"You need to take a day off."
He smiled.
"Is that a medical order?"
"It's a recommendation from somebody who's seen what happens when people ignore them."
"Then I'll consider it."
I shook my head.
"You sound like every stubborn patient I've ever had."
He laughed.
We sat together until it was time for him to leave.
At the door, he kissed my cheek.
It was a small gesture.
Still, I felt warmth spread through me.
After he left, I locked the door and returned to the living room.
I sat in Dwight's recliner.
The house was quiet, but the silence no longer felt like a punishment.
I could hear the refrigerator humming in the kitchen.
The clock above the stove continued running three minutes slow.
I had finally decided to fix it.
Not because it bothered me.
Because I wanted to.
The next morning, I called a repairman who worked on old clocks.
He said he'd come the following week.
I wrote the appointment on the calendar.
Then I stood in the kitchen looking at the date.
It was a small thing, planning for the following week.
For a long time after Dwight died, I had avoided making plans because I didn't want to think too far ahead.
Now I was beginning to understand that a future didn't have to be certain to be worth preparing for.
That Sunday, the whole family came to supper.
Megan had driven in from Longview.
Zach and Jordyn brought the children.
Wendell arrived with a loaf of bread.
I had made roast chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans.
The table was crowded.
There were elbows, spilled water, and a debate about which grandchild had taken the last roll.
I loved every minute of it.
At one point, Zach asked Wendell about the garden.
Wendell told him he'd planted a few things and was planning more for spring.
Zach offered to help repair a section of the fence if it needed work.
Wendell thanked him.
I looked at Megan.
She smiled at me.
Nobody made a speech about family.
Nobody announced that everything was forgiven.
We simply ate together.
After supper, the grandchildren went into the living room.
Jordyn helped me wrap the leftovers.
Megan stood beside the sink and washed a few dishes.
Zach carried the serving bowls to the counter.
Wendell dried them.
I watched the four of them working in my kitchen.
For years, I had believed that keeping a family together meant smoothing over every disagreement before anyone left the house.
I had spent too much time trying to make everybody comfortable.
Now I understood that a family could remain a family even when people had to admit they'd been wrong.
That was a better kind of peace.
Later, when the children were getting ready to leave, Zach came over to me.
He hugged me.
"See you next Sunday, Mama."
I smiled.
"I'll be here."
He glanced toward Wendell.
"See you, too."
Wendell nodded.
"Have a good week."
The cars pulled away one by one.
Megan was the last to leave.
She hugged me at the door and told me to call if I needed anything.
I promised I would.
Then the house became quiet again.
Wendell was still there.
He helped me put away the last dishes.
When the kitchen was clean, he stood beside the table and looked at the empty chairs.
"That was a good supper."
I nodded.
"It was."
He glanced at me.
"You all right?"
I smiled.
"I'm better than all right."
He took my hand.
We stood together for a moment.
Then he went home.
I locked the door behind him.
The yellow dish towel hung over the oven handle.
The kitchen clock ticked above the stove.
The brown recliner waited beside the window.
Everything was familiar.
But the house no longer felt frozen in the life I'd had before Dwight died.
It was becoming the place where I lived now.
A place where I could remember my husband without feeling disloyal.
A place where my children could visit without deciding what I needed.
A place where Wendell could sit down for supper and be welcomed.
I turned off the kitchen light.
Then I went into the living room and sat in the recliner.
I rested my feet on the footstool and leaned back.
For the first time in years, I didn't feel as though I had to choose between the past and the future.
They could both be there.
Dwight's memory could remain.
Wendell could come over on Sunday.
My children could worry sometimes and learn to trust me again.
And I could keep making decisions about my own life.
I sat quietly until the room grew dark.
Then I stood, turned on the lamp, and went to bed.
There was nothing dramatic about that evening.
No confrontation.
No revelation.
Just a woman going to sleep in her own house, knowing that the next day belonged to her.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The Clock Above My Stove Finally Started Keeping the Right Time, and I Realized How Much of My Life I’d Spent Waiting for Things to Change
My Husband Had Been Gone Two Years, but the First Man Who Made Me Feel Alive Again Had Something He Wouldn’t Explain
Part 16 of 24
