The first few evenings in the little house were harder than I expected.
During the day, I kept busy.
There were boxes to unpack.
Groceries to buy.
Bills to organize.
The small bedroom needed a proper lamp.
The kitchen drawer stuck whenever I tried to open it.
I had enough little jobs to fill the hours.
But evenings were different.
After supper, there wasn't much to do.
I would wash my plate, wipe the counter, and make another cup of tea.
Then I would sit on the porch swing.
The grain trucks came and went.
Some waited in line to be weighed.
Others drove away with their trailers empty.
I learned to recognize the sounds.
The low rumble of an engine.
The brakes.
The occasional horn from the road.
It was a peaceful place.
Most nights.
But I missed my grandchildren.
I missed them in ways I hadn't expected.
I had thought having my own home would make everything easier.
I hadn't considered how much of my happiness came from being able to visit Michelle's house whenever I wanted.
I used to stop by with cookies.
Sometimes I brought groceries.
Sometimes I simply wanted to see the children.
Nobody had to arrange anything.
Nobody had to check a calendar.
I could knock, walk inside, and hear Sadie running toward me.
Now I had to wonder whether I was welcome.
I didn't want to become the grandmother who constantly called asking for permission to see her grandchildren.
I didn't want Michelle to think I was trying to make her feel guilty.
So I waited.
One evening, I took Sadie's last drawing from the box where I had kept it.
It showed a yellow sun above a crooked house.
There were four people standing outside.
One had long gray hair.
I smiled.
I placed it on the refrigerator.
Then I stood there looking at it.
I wondered whether she remembered drawing it for me.
I wondered whether she knew I had kept it.
Ten days passed.
No calls.
No messages.
No photographs.
Nothing from Michelle.
Nothing from Todd.
Not even a quick hello from one of the children.
I tried to tell myself they were busy.
I knew how demanding work and children could be.
But I also knew that ten days was a long time when somebody wanted to speak to you.
I began questioning my decision.
Not the rent.
Not the house.
Those things still made sense.
It was the loneliness.
I wondered whether I should have accepted Michelle's offer just to keep the family close.
Perhaps the basement room wouldn't have been so bad.
Perhaps I could have made it comfortable.
Perhaps I could have ignored the dehumidifier.
Then I remembered the paper.
Eight hundred dollars.
And four days of childcare.
I remembered Michelle explaining that I needed to contribute.
I looked at the small room in my house.
I could walk from one end to the other without asking anybody to move.
I could open my front door whenever I wanted.
I could sit in the kitchen at midnight if I couldn't sleep.
That mattered.
Still, I missed them.
Both things could be true.
I was proud of my decision.
And I was lonely because of it.
On Thursday evening, I was preparing supper.
I had potatoes on the stove and a little chicken in the oven.
The kitchen smelled warm.
I had just taken a dish towel from the drawer when I heard an engine outside.
A pickup.
It slowed near the house.
Then stopped.
I didn't think much of it at first.
Several people used that street.
Then a door slammed.
I looked through the front window.
A familiar vehicle was parked beside the road.
My heart gave a little jump.
It was Todd's pickup.
I put the towel down.
The passenger door opened.
Michelle stepped out.
I couldn't see her face clearly through the window at first.
Then she turned toward the house.
Her eyes were swollen.
Even from where I stood, I could tell she had been crying.
Todd climbed out after her.
He was carrying a yellow legal pad.
I watched them walk toward the porch.
For a moment, I didn't move.
I wasn't sure what to expect.
An argument?
An apology?
Another discussion about money?
Michelle reached the first step.
I opened the screen door before either of them could knock.
"Hello, Mom," she said.
Her voice was quiet.
"Hello, sweetheart."
She looked past me into the house.
Todd stood a little behind her.
The legal pad was tucked under his arm.
"Can we come in?" he asked.
I stepped aside.
"Of course."
They entered.
Michelle looked around.
Her eyes moved from the kitchen table to the curtains, then to the little cabinet where Dale's photograph stood.
She didn't say anything.
Todd walked toward the table.
I noticed that he wasn't carrying a folder or an envelope.
Just the yellow legal pad.
He placed it on the table.
Then he looked at me.
"Judy, there's something I need to tell you."
I sat down slowly.
Michelle remained standing.
Todd put one hand on the pad.
"I was the one who came up with the eight hundred dollars."
I looked at him.
He continued.
"Michelle didn't decide that number."
I glanced toward my daughter.
She lowered her eyes.
Todd pulled out a chair and sat down.
"I suggested it. I wrote it down. I told her what I thought the arrangement should be."
I didn't know what to say.
He opened the legal pad.
The first page was covered in handwriting.
Not a few sentences.
The entire page.
There were figures, notes, and several lines crossed out.
I leaned forward.
Todd turned the pad around so I could read it.
"There's something here you need to understand."
I looked at the first line.
Then the next.
My eyes moved slowly down the page.
I recognized the number eight hundred.
I recognized the word basement.
But there were other things written beneath them.
Things I hadn't expected to see.
I looked up at Todd.
He didn't look away this time.
Michelle pulled out the chair beside me.
She sat down and placed both hands in her lap.
Neither of them spoke.
The dehumidifier wasn't humming in this house.
There was only the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Todd pushed the yellow pad a little closer.
"Please read all of it before you say anything."
I looked down again.
And began with the first sentence.
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: The Yellow Legal Pad Held More Than an Apology, and the First Page Made Me Realize Todd Had Been Hiding Something
My Daughter Had a Price for Giving Her Widowed Mother a Place to Sleep, and I Had to Decide What My Years Were Worth
Part 4 of 20
