The first morning in my new apartment, I woke before sunrise.
For a few seconds, I did not recognize the room.
Then I saw the framed photograph of Walt and me on the shelf.
I remembered where I was.
My own apartment.
My own bed.
My own quiet.
I got up and walked into the kitchen.
The floor was cold beneath my feet.
I opened the cupboard and found the chipped mug I had brought from the old house.
I made tea.
Then I stood beside the balcony door and watched the street wake up.
A delivery truck stopped outside the building.
A woman walked her dog.
Someone opened a shop across the road.
Nothing special happened.
That was what I liked about it.
For months, every day had been about finding somewhere to sleep, making sure I was not taking up too much space, and wondering whether I had become a burden.
Now I could leave a book on the table without asking anyone.
I could make breakfast whenever I wanted.
I could sit in silence without worrying that someone needed the television turned down.
I was grateful for all of it.
But independence was not the same as never needing anyone.
I learned that on the third day.
The kitchen tap began dripping.
At first, I ignored it.
Then the dripping became steady.
I placed a small bowl beneath the faucet and called the landlord.
He said he could send someone the following afternoon.
I thanked him.
Then I called Danny.
He answered over the sound of an engine.
"Hey, Mom."
"I have a little problem with the kitchen tap."
"What's wrong with it?"
I explained.
He laughed softly.
"Put a bowl underneath it. I'll come by after work."
"You don't have to."
"I know."
He arrived that evening with a small toolbox.
He tightened something beneath the sink and replaced a worn washer.
The dripping stopped.
"There," he said. "That should do it."
I handed him a towel.
"Thank you."
He washed his hands in the kitchen sink.
"You're welcome."
Then he looked around.
"You've got everything set up nicely."
"Not everything."
He noticed the curtains still folded over the chair.
"I can help with those."
"Another day."
He nodded.
We sat at the small table and drank tea.
He told me about a customer who had brought in a car with a noise he could not identify.
The customer insisted it was the transmission.
Danny found a loose piece of metal near the exhaust.
"Three hours of arguing over a sound that took five minutes to fix," he said.
I laughed.
It felt good to hear him complain about ordinary work.
Before he left, he checked the tap one more time.
Then he pointed at the bowl beneath the sink.
"Keep that there tonight, just in case."
"I will."
He kissed my forehead.
I watched him walk down the stairs.
I did not feel abandoned when the door closed.
I felt loved.
There was a difference.
The next afternoon, Stephanie came over.
She brought a small plant in a white pot.
"I thought this would look nice near the window."
I thanked her.
She placed it on the sill and turned it so the leaves faced the light.
"Does it get enough sun here?"
"I think so."
She looked around the apartment.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
"Very well."
"Are you eating properly?"
I smiled.
"Yes, Stephanie."
She laughed.
"I know. I'm being a mother."
"You've always been a daughter."
She looked at me.
Then she understood what I meant.
We sat together for a while.
She asked about the old house.
I told her I had not decided whether to sell it.
She suggested I take my time.
That was new.
A few months earlier, she would have wanted an answer immediately.
Now she seemed willing to let the question remain open.
Before leaving, she stood beside the shelf.
Her eyes settled on the photograph of Walt and me.
"He looks happy there."
"He was."
"I wish I had asked him more questions about the business."
I looked at her.
"Why?"
"Because I only understood it as something he worked on. I didn't understand what it cost him."
I remembered Walt coming home with tired eyes and a shirt smelling of diesel.
"He never wanted you children to worry about it."
Stephanie touched the frame.
"I know."
Then she turned toward me.
"Do you ever feel angry with us?"
I considered the question.
"Sometimes."
She nodded.
"That's fair."
"But I don't want to spend the rest of my life being angry."
"I don't want that either."
I took her hand.
"We have to do better with the time we have."
She squeezed my fingers.
"I'll try."
After she left, I watered the plant.
The leaves were small and bright.
I placed it beside the photograph.
That evening, Michael called.
He asked whether I had received a letter from Mr. Harris.
I told him I had not.
He explained that the attorney had sent updated copies of the estate documents to all three children.
Michael wanted to know whether I planned to make any changes.
"No."
"You're satisfied with everything?"
"Yes."
He paused.
"Have you thought about the children's future?"
"Which children?"
"Mine. Stephanie's. Danny's boys."
"I think about them all the time."
"I mean financially."
I understood.
He was approaching the subject carefully.
"Walt made his arrangements," I said. "I am not changing them."
"I wasn't asking you to."
"Then what are you asking?"
He took a breath.
"I've been thinking about the way Dad divided things. I wonder whether the grandchildren were considered."
"They were considered in the arrangements he made."
"Right."
I waited.
Michael continued.
"I don't want you to think I'm trying to get anything for myself."
"I don't think that."
"But I do think about what happens later."
"So do I."
He was quiet.
Then he said, "I suppose I wanted to know whether you were going to leave everything exactly as Dad wrote it."
"For now, yes."
"Okay."
I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
But he did not argue.
We spoke about the grandchildren for a few minutes before hanging up.
I put the phone down and looked at Walt's photograph.
I wondered how many conversations like that he had anticipated.
He had known that money could make ordinary family questions difficult.
He had tried to make his wishes clear while he was still alive.
I wanted to respect that.
Not because the documents were more important than the children.
Because the decisions had been made with care.
The following Saturday, Danny brought the boys to visit.
They came carrying a small cardboard box.
"We brought you something," the older one announced.
I opened it.
Inside was a drawing of my new apartment.
The windows were too large, and the balcony was on the wrong side.
There was a yellow sun in the corner.
Four people stood inside the apartment.
One was holding a cup.
"That's Grandma," he said.
I pointed at the other figures.
"Who's this?"
"Dad."
"And this?"
"Mom."
He pointed to the smallest person.
"That's me."
I smiled.
"Where is your brother?"
He looked at the picture.
Then he added a small blue circle near the door.
"That's him."
I laughed.
I put the drawing on the refrigerator.
It was not a valuable gift.
It was better than that.
It reminded me that my new home was not a wall between me and my family.
It was simply another place where we could meet.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: What We Chose to Keep
My Husband Left Me With One Secret, and I Never Imagined My Three Children Would Give Me Three Completely Different Answers
Part 17 of 20
