The following Saturday, Todd arrived carrying a toolbox.
He had called the evening before to ask whether ten o'clock would suit me.
I told him it would.
At ten minutes past ten, his truck pulled up beside the porch.
He came to the door wearing his work jacket, with a tape measure clipped to his belt.
"Morning, Judy."
"Come in. The kitchen's warmer."
He stamped the snow from his boots and followed me inside.
The draft near the kitchen window had become more noticeable since the temperature dropped.
I had placed a folded towel along the sill to keep the cold air from coming through.
Todd examined it.
"That's a good temporary fix."
"Temporary is the important word."
He smiled.
"I brought weather stripping."
He spent the next half hour measuring the window and checking the frame.
I made coffee while he worked.
The house filled with the sound of tools being opened and closed.
It reminded me of Dale.
For a moment, I almost called Todd by his name.
Then I stopped myself.
Grief can make a person reach for the past without warning.
When Todd finished, he pressed the window shut and ran his hand along the edge.
"That should help."
I checked it myself.
The cold draft had disappeared.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
I poured coffee into two mugs and set a plate of biscuits on the table.
Todd sat down.
For a while, we talked about the weather and the factory where he worked.
Then he looked at the kitchen window.
"I've been thinking about something."
I waited.
"That first afternoon, when I showed you the $800 figure, I thought I was being responsible."
I folded my hands around my mug.
"Responsible to whom?"
He looked at me.
"Michelle and the children. Myself, too, I suppose."
"And me?"
He lowered his eyes.
"Not enough."
I didn't answer.
He continued.
"I grew up believing that if you put everything in writing, nobody could misunderstand the arrangement."
I glanced toward the drawer where the yellow legal pad was stored.
"Sometimes writing things down helps."
"I know."
He rubbed his thumb along the edge of his mug.
"But I used the numbers to avoid a conversation I should have had."
I studied him.
"What conversation?"
He took a breath.
"The one where I admitted that we were worried about money."
I sat quietly.
Todd had never struck me as a man who liked discussing his fears.
He was practical.
He liked fixing things.
When a problem appeared, he wanted to know how much it would cost and how quickly it could be handled.
I could understand that.
Dale had been much the same way.
But Todd had taken his practical nature too far.
He had treated a family decision as though the person affected by it were simply another expense to account for.
"I wasn't asking you to pay our bills," I said.
"I know."
"And I wasn't asking you to solve my problems, either."
"I know that now."
He looked uncomfortable.
"Michelle and I have been trying to keep up with everything. The mortgage, the children's expenses, the truck. Some months, it feels as though every time we get ahead, something else needs paying."
I nodded.
"That's how life can be."
He gave a small laugh.
"You're telling me."
I smiled.
Then he grew serious again.
"When you said you would rather be my mother than somebody paying rent to us, I realized how badly I'd misunderstood what you needed."
I looked toward the window.
"What I needed wasn't complicated, Todd."
"I know."
"I needed a place to live. I needed to know I could afford it. And I needed to feel that I could still make my own decisions."
He nodded slowly.
"I thought if you moved in with us, we'd all be helping one another."
"We might have been."
He looked up.
"But not if you had to give up your privacy and most of your week to make the arrangement work."
He accepted that without arguing.
I took a sip of coffee.
"I don't expect you and Michelle to solve everything for me. I'm not helpless."
"I know you're not."
"And if I need help someday, I hope I'll be able to ask you."
He looked directly at me.
"You will."
I wanted to believe him.
The truth was that I had always been willing to help Todd when I could.
When Michelle first married him, I had welcomed him into our family.
He had worked hard, and he had treated my daughter with kindness in many ways.
That was why the basement proposal had hurt so much.
It hadn't come from a stranger.
It had come from people I loved.
Todd stood and carried his mug to the sink.
"I should get going."
"Stay a little longer."
He looked surprised.
Then he sat back down.
We talked about Dale.
Todd told me about a time the two of them had repaired a fence after a storm.
I remembered that day.
Dale had come home exhausted, with mud on his trousers and a scratch across his cheek.
He'd said the fence would hold until spring.
Todd had been impressed that he could fix almost anything with a few tools and patience.
"I didn't realize how much I learned from him," Todd said.
I smiled.
"He would have liked hearing that."
Todd looked at the photograph on the dresser.
"I wish he'd been here when we made that offer."
I knew what he meant.
Dale would have challenged the numbers.
He would have asked why his wife was expected to pay so much for so little space.
But he also would have wanted our family to stay close.
He wouldn't have wanted us to spend years carrying a grudge over one bad decision.
"Your mistake doesn't have to be the only thing I remember about you," I told Todd.
He looked at me for a long moment.
"Thank you."
After he left, I checked the window again.
It was secure.
I removed the folded towel from the sill and put it in the laundry basket.
Then I made another cup of coffee and sat beside the window.
The legal pad remained in the drawer.
I didn't need to look at it.
I had heard the apology.
More importantly, I had seen Todd come back and do something useful without expecting anything in return.
The repair had taken less than an hour.
Trust would take longer.
But for the first time, I felt that we were working on the same problem.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: The Children Asked Whether I Would Spend Christmas in Their Basement, and I Had to Explain That Loving Them Didn’t Mean Moving Back
My Daughter Put a Price on Being Her Mother, but Two Keys in My Hand Reminded Me That I Still Had a Choice
Part 10 of 20
