Roscoe's next departure was approaching.
The calendar on the kitchen wall still had his usual schedule marked.
I had written it there months earlier.
Three weeks out.
A few days home.
Three weeks out again.
The dates looked ordinary.
But nothing felt ordinary anymore.
He had spent more time at home than he usually did.
He helped his mother with a few things.
He sat with the boys.
He even washed some dishes one evening.
I didn't praise him for it.
Not because I didn't appreciate the help.
Because those things were part of being in a family.
They weren't special favors.
His mother noticed the difference too.
One afternoon, she asked him to bring her a glass of water.
He did.
She thanked him.
Then she looked at me.
I could tell she was thinking about the years when I had done nearly everything.
I gave her a small smile.
She squeezed my hand.
We didn't need to talk about it.
Roscoe was quieter now.
He didn't bring up Jasmine.
He didn't mention the other women.
I wasn't sure whether he had stopped seeing them.
I wasn't sure whether he was simply avoiding the subject.
I had stopped asking the same questions.
I had learned that I couldn't make a person tell the truth by asking more carefully.
One morning, he came into the kitchen while I was preparing breakfast.
He watched me for a moment.
Then he asked whether I still wanted him home.
I stopped what I was doing.
The question surprised me.
For forty years, I had wanted him home.
I had waited for him.
I had counted the days.
I had listened for his pickup.
I had made room for him in a house that was already full of responsibilities.
But that wasn't the question anymore.
I turned toward him.
"What do you mean?"
He pulled out a chair.
"I mean, after everything, do you still want me here?"
I looked at him.
He seemed genuinely afraid of the answer.
I thought about giving him the response he wanted.
I could have said yes.
I could have told him that forty years meant something.
That we had a family.
That we had grandchildren.
That we had been through too much to throw everything away.
Some of those things were true.
But I didn't want to use them to hide what had happened.
"I want the husband I thought I had."
He lowered his eyes.
"I know."
"No, Roscoe. I don't think you do."
I sat down across from him.
"I don't want a man who comes home and expects me to pretend nothing happened."
He listened.
"I don't want to wonder where you are every time you leave."
He nodded.
"And I don't want the boys growing up thinking their grandfather can do whatever he wants because he spends a lot of time away."
He looked toward the hallway.
I continued.
"I wanted you home because I loved you. Not because I needed somebody to help me carry groceries."
He swallowed.
I could see that he was struggling.
But I wasn't going to soften the truth for him.
He asked whether I thought we could repair things.
I looked at him for a long moment.
"I don't know."
That was the honest answer.
He seemed disappointed.
I understood why.
He wanted something definite.
A promise.
A decision.
Something he could hold on to.
But I had spent too many years accepting promises without asking what they meant.
He reached across the table.
I looked at his hand.
I didn't take it.
He slowly pulled it back.
Then he asked whether I wanted him to stay home instead of leaving for his next trip.
I considered the question.
It would have been easy to say yes.
It might have felt like a small victory.
But I knew that keeping him home for a few extra days wouldn't answer anything.
"You need to decide what you are going to do about your life."
He looked at me.
"And you need to decide what you want from yours," I added.
He nodded.
His mother called from the bedroom.
"Libby-girl?"
I stood.
"I'll be right there."
Roscoe remained at the table.
I went to help her.
She wanted to be moved closer to the window.
I adjusted her chair.
Then I fixed the blanket over her knees.
She looked toward me.
"How are you holding up?"
I smiled faintly.
"I'm managing."
She studied my face.
"That's what you've always said."
I looked at her.
She reached for my hand.
"You don't always have to manage everything alone."
I felt my eyes fill.
I looked away for a moment.
Then I squeezed her hand.
"Thank you."
She nodded.
We sat quietly for a while.
When I returned to the kitchen, Roscoe was still there.
The calendar was in front of him.
He had been looking at the dates.
He pointed toward the next departure.
"That's Thursday."
I nodded.
"I know."
He looked at me.
"Do you want me to go?"
I took a breath.
Then I gave him the answer I had been avoiding.
"Whether you drive away on Thursday isn't the thing you need to fix."
He waited.
"What's broken is what you did to this family while you were away."
He looked at the calendar again.
I walked to the counter.
The grocery list was still there.
The little oranges were no longer written on it.
For the first time in forty years, I wasn't preparing for his next trip.
I was waiting to see whether his actions would finally match the promises he had spent so many years making.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: Thursday Came Around, but This Time I Didn’t Have His Cooler Ready or a Goodbye Kiss Waiting at the Door
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
Part 12 of 20
