PART 19 – The Pink Notebook Finally Came Out of the Drawer, and I Decided I Would No Longer Let Its Pages Decide How I Felt About Myself

A few days later, I cleaned the bedroom.

I changed the sheets.

I folded the quilt.

I wiped the dresser.

When I opened the drawer to put away a small cloth, I saw the pink notebook.

It was still where I had left it.

I picked it up.

The cover was beginning to curl.

I sat on the edge of the bed.

I thought about the day I had found it.

I remembered the passenger seat of my Chevrolet.

I remembered bending down and reaching beneath it.

I remembered how my hands had shaken when I realized what the pages contained.

At the time, I had felt as if something had been taken from me.

Not my money.

Not my belongings.

Something less visible.

My sense that I could trust my own family to speak to me honestly.

I opened the notebook.

I looked at the handwriting.

I didn't need to read everything again.

I knew enough.

I thought about the day Marlee had held out the printed house rules.

I thought about Hugh standing beside the truck.

I thought about the little hammer-shaped keys.

Those two keys had changed more than where I slept.

They had reminded me that I still had choices.

I closed the notebook.

Then I put it on the kitchen table.

I didn't want to keep it hidden in a drawer forever.

But I didn't want it sitting in front of me every morning, either.

I decided I would return it to Marlee when the time felt right.

Not as an accusation.

Not as a threat.

Simply because it belonged to her.

That afternoon, Hugh called.

He asked whether I was free on Sunday.

I told him I was.

He said the children wanted to see me.

I smiled.

"Then I would love to see them."

He mentioned that Marlee was planning lunch.

I told him that sounded nice.

Then he asked something else.

"Mama, would you ever consider helping with the children again?"

I went quiet.

He quickly added that he didn't mean every day.

Just sometimes.

When they needed help.

I took a breath.

"Hugh, I never said I wouldn't help."

He waited.

"But I need you to ask me. And I need to be able to say no when I can't."

"Of course."

"I have appointments. I have errands. Sometimes I want to spend a day doing nothing."

He laughed softly.

"Doing nothing?"

"Yes. It's a very important activity."

He laughed again.

I smiled.

I wanted him to understand that my retirement wasn't an open invitation.

I was allowed to have plans.

I was allowed to rest.

I was allowed to decide that a particular day belonged to me.

He agreed.

We ended the call.

I went downstairs to the hardware store.

Mr. Crenshaw was arranging a new display.

He looked up.

"Need anything?"

"Just wanted to say hello."

He smiled.

"Always welcome."

I stood near the counter for a moment.

Then I asked him whether he thought I had made the right decision.

He put down the box he was holding.

"About moving?"

I nodded.

He looked at me carefully.

"Tressie, are you comfortable upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Can you afford it?"

"Yes."

"Do you feel safe?"

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Then I think you answered your own question."

I laughed.

He had a way of making complicated things sound simple.

I thanked him.

Then I went upstairs.

I picked up the pink notebook from the table.

I placed it inside a small paper bag.

I folded the top.

I wrote Marlee's name on it.

I would return it when I saw her.

There was no reason to keep something that had been left in my car.

But I wasn't going to apologize for having found it.

I had done nothing wrong.

That evening, I sat near the window.

The street was quiet.

The hardware store had closed.

I could hear Mr. Crenshaw locking the front door downstairs.

I looked at the little hammer-shaped keys.

Then I thought about my husband.

He would have liked this apartment.

He would have liked the proper kitchen.

He would have liked that I could sit near the window without worrying about anybody's schedule.

I touched the edge of the photograph.

"I think I'm doing all right," I whispered.

And for once, I believed myself.

Click here to continue reading: PART 20: I Returned the Little Pink Notebook, Kept the Keys to My Own Home, and Finally Learned That Being Family Should Never Cost Your Dignity