The following days passed quietly.
I unpacked a little each morning.
I didn't rush.
I put the plates in the cupboards.
I arranged the cups beside them.
I found a place for the sugar bowl.
My husband had bought it at a church sale years earlier.
It wasn't particularly pretty.
But I liked it.
I placed it near the coffee maker.
Then I unpacked my kitchen towels.
I folded them into a drawer.
The apartment slowly began to look like mine.
Every morning, I opened the curtains.
I liked watching the street wake up.
The hardware store downstairs became busy around eight.
Customers came in looking for screws, paint, filters, and things they couldn't find anywhere else.
Mr. Crenshaw knew most of them.
Sometimes I heard him laughing.
Sometimes I heard him explaining something.
It was comforting.
I had spent so many years in hospitals that I was used to the sounds of people coming and going.
The store had its own rhythm.
And I liked being part of it without having to participate.
One afternoon, I was looking for a pair of scissors.
I opened my purse and found the pink notebook.
I had forgotten I put it there.
I took it out.
The flowers on the cover looked cheerful.
That seemed strange now.
I sat at the table.
For a while, I simply held it.
I wondered what I should do with it.
I could have thrown it away.
I could have returned it to Marlee.
I could have kept it as proof of what had happened.
But none of those choices felt quite right.
I opened the notebook.
I looked at the pages.
I didn't read every line.
I had already read enough to understand why it had hurt.
I thought about the kitchen table at Hugh's house.
Marlee with her pen.
The circled number.
The room above the garage.
The little window.
Augie asking whether I would have to sleep with the garage smell.
Then I thought about the printed house rules.
Quiet hours.
Cooking restrictions.
The expectations surrounding the children.
I closed the notebook.
I wasn't interested in making Marlee look foolish.
I wasn't interested in humiliating Hugh.
But I wasn't going to forget what had happened, either.
There was a difference between forgiveness and pretending.
I placed the notebook in a drawer.
Not on the table.
Not beside my husband's photograph.
Just in a drawer where I wouldn't have to see it every day.
Then I went back to arranging my kitchen.
That evening, I received a message from Hugh.
He asked whether I needed anything from the old duplex.
I read it twice.
Then I replied that I had everything I needed.
He sent another message.
He said the children had asked when I was coming over.
I smiled.
I missed them.
Especially Augie.
I remembered the way he had looked at that little room.
I wondered whether he understood why Grandma hadn't moved there.
I typed a message telling Hugh I would love to see them.
Then I stopped.
I didn't want the invitation to sound like an apology.
I rewrote it.
I told him I missed the children and hoped we could arrange a visit soon.
He replied with a simple acknowledgment.
That was enough for the moment.
The next morning, I went downstairs to buy a few household supplies.
Mr. Crenshaw was behind the counter.
He looked up.
"Getting settled?"
"Little by little."
He smiled.
"That's the best way."
I bought a small packet of hooks and a light bulb.
He refused to charge me for the bulb.
I protested.
He shook his head.
"Call it a welcome gift."
I laughed.
"You shouldn't do that."
"I've been running this place long enough to know when a person needs a little kindness."
I thanked him.
Then I went upstairs.
I hung a small kitchen towel beside the sink.
I replaced the light bulb.
I put the new hooks near the door.
My purse went on the same chair every evening.
My keys stayed on the counter.
I liked knowing where everything was.
That afternoon, I opened the window.
A little breeze came through.
It moved the edge of the curtain.
I stood there for a while.
I thought about how close I had come to accepting the garage room.
If I had agreed, I would have spent my days watching the children.
I would have paid seven hundred dollars every month.
I would have tried not to cook anything that bothered anybody.
I would have followed rules written by somebody who apparently believed I needed instructions on how to live in her house.
And I would have called it family.
I shook my head.
I wasn't angry every minute anymore.
Sometimes I was simply sad.
I missed Hugh.
I missed the grandchildren.
I missed the feeling of being welcomed without conditions.
But I was beginning to understand that I couldn't force people to treat me the way I hoped they would.
I could only decide what I would accept.
That evening, I made a proper meal in my little kitchen.
Nothing fancy.
I cooked vegetables and warmed some chicken.
I set the table.
I used my good plate.
Then I sat down beside the window.
The food tasted better than I expected.
After supper, I washed everything.
I turned off the kitchen light.
Before going to bed, I checked the drawer where I had placed the pink notebook.
It was still there.
I closed the drawer again.
Then I turned off the lamp.
I had spent many years believing that being a good mother meant always making room for everybody else.
Now I was learning that I needed to leave a little room for myself, too.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: My Grandchildren Wanted to Know Why Grandma Had Moved Away, and I Struggled to Explain Without Blaming Their Parents
My Son Offered Me a Place to Live, but the Price He Put on My Independence Was Something I Never Expected
Part 12 of 20
