I didn't unpack everything that afternoon.
My back was hurting, and my knees had started to ache.
I decided the rest could wait.
I had spent enough years believing every job needed to be finished immediately.
At seventy-four, I was learning that a box could stay closed overnight without the world falling apart.
I made myself a simple supper.
A sandwich.
Some soup.
A glass of water.
I ate at the little table near the kitchen.
Afterward, I washed my plate and placed it in the cupboard.
Then I sat down.
The apartment was quiet.
I had always liked quiet.
But that evening, it felt different.
At the duplex, quiet meant my husband wasn't there anymore.
It meant the rooms were empty.
It meant I had another evening to get through by myself.
Here, the quiet meant something else.
It was a new place.
A place I hadn't filled with memories yet.
I looked toward the window.
The light outside was fading.
I turned on the lamp.
My husband's Army photograph sat on the dresser.
I picked it up.
The frame was a little dusty from the move.
I wiped it with the corner of my cardigan.
Then I placed it back.
I wondered what he would have thought about everything.
He had always been protective of me.
Not in a way that made me feel small.
He simply believed I should have a say in my own life.
I missed that.
I missed him.
I put the photograph down and went to make another cup of tea.
My phone was on the counter.
I checked it.
No messages from Hugh.
I wasn't surprised.
Still, I felt disappointed.
I had told him I would call once I was settled.
I considered doing it right then.
Then I decided to wait until morning.
I didn't want to call simply because I was afraid he might be upset.
I wanted to speak to him when I could be calm.
I changed into my nightclothes.
I folded my cardigan over the back of the chair.
Then I checked the front door.
Locked.
I checked the windows.
Closed.
I placed the keys beside my purse.
Two keys.
Two small pieces of metal that meant I could come and go without asking anyone.
I went to bed.
For the first time in several nights, I slept without waking every hour.
The next morning, I made coffee.
I sat near the window and watched the hardware store open downstairs.
Mr. Crenshaw arrived wearing a different shirt.
He unlocked the front door and turned on the lights.
A few minutes later, he came upstairs.
He knocked before entering.
I appreciated that.
"Morning, Tressie."
"Morning."
"How was your first night?"
"Very good, thank you."
He smiled.
"Anything you need?"
I shook my head.
"Not right now."
He looked around.
"You've made the place feel like home already."
I glanced at the photograph.
"I'm getting there."
He nodded.
Then he went back downstairs.
I finished my coffee.
After breakfast, I called Hugh.
He answered after several rings.
"Hello?"
"It's Mama."
There was a short pause.
"Hi."
"How are you?"
"Fine."
I looked toward the window.
"I wanted to let you know I'm settled."
"Okay."
"The apartment is comfortable. Mr. Crenshaw helped me with everything."
"That's good."
His voice sounded distant.
I didn't know whether he was busy or simply unsure what to say.
I decided not to push.
"How are the children?"
"They're fine."
I smiled.
"Tell Augie I said hello."
"I will."
Another pause.
Then Hugh asked whether I had enough room for my belongings.
I told him I did.
He asked whether the apartment had heating.
I said it did.
Those were ordinary questions.
I answered them.
But he didn't ask whether I was happy.
And I didn't ask whether he was angry.
We ended the call politely.
I placed the phone on the table.
I wasn't expecting everything to be repaired in one conversation.
I knew that.
Still, the distance hurt.
I walked to the window.
Below me, a customer entered the hardware store.
Mr. Crenshaw greeted him.
The bell above the door rang.
I listened to it.
Then I returned to my chair.
I had a home.
I had my belongings.
I had enough money to pay my bills.
But I also had a son who was struggling to understand why I had refused his offer.
I hoped we would find our way through it.
I just wasn't willing to move back into the garage to make that happen.
Click here to continue reading: PART 12: I Began Arranging My Own Kitchen, While the Pink Notebook Reminded Me That Love and Control Were Not the Same Thing
My Son Offered Me a Place to Live, but the Price He Put on My Independence Was Something I Never Expected
Part 11 of 20
