I used to believe that a long marriage was measured by the things you put up with.
I thought that was what made two people last.
The missed birthdays. The empty chairs. The nights you went to bed alone because your husband was somewhere on the highway, hundreds of miles away.
I had been married to Roscoe for forty years.
For most of those years, he drove a truck.
Three weeks away.
A few days home.
Then another three weeks away.
That was how our life worked.
People sometimes asked me how I managed it.
I usually shrugged.
"You get used to it."
That was what I said.
I wasn't sure I ever really did.
There were mornings when I woke up and reached across the bed without thinking.
My hand would find cold sheets.
Then I'd remember.
Roscoe was somewhere between states, probably drinking coffee from a paper cup and listening to the radio.
I would get up anyway.
There was always something that needed doing.
When he was home, I made sure he had clean clothes, groceries, and a full refrigerator.
When he was gone, I kept everything else running.
I had become good at both jobs.
Too good, probably.
Every time Roscoe prepared to leave, I packed his cooler.
I knew exactly what he liked.
Ham sandwiches.
Nothing fancy.
A little mustard, not too much.
And those small oranges he liked to peel while sitting behind the wheel.
I would line them up beside the sandwiches.
Sometimes I'd add a couple of cookies.
He never asked me to do it.
I simply did.
That was our arrangement, even if neither of us had ever called it that.
He drove.
I took care of home.
No complaints.
No arguments.
No questions about why I was always the one adjusting.
At least, none that I said out loud.
There were plenty of things I handled while he was gone.
The furnace had quit one January, right in the middle of a cold spell.
I remember standing in the kitchen wearing my winter coat while I waited for the repairman.
Roscoe was in another state.
I called him after the work was finished.
He asked how much it cost.
I told him.
He said that was expensive.
Then he asked whether I had remembered to put the little oranges in his cooler for his next trip.
I said yes.
That was the end of the conversation.
I didn't make anything of it.
Or perhaps I made too little of it.
Looking back, I sometimes wonder how many little moments a woman can swallow before she forgets she is allowed to speak.
Then there was his mother.
His mother had suffered a stroke and could no longer manage on her own.
She came to live with us.
Roscoe was still driving when it happened.
There were arrangements to make, appointments to organize, and a bedroom to prepare.
I did most of it.
I never thought of refusing.
She was his mother.
She was also an elderly woman who needed somebody.
That somebody became me.
I helped her get dressed.
I washed her hair.
I made sure she had her medicine and enough water beside her chair.
When she needed help getting into the bathtub, I was there.
When she couldn't manage her food, I cut it into smaller pieces.
Her hands weren't always steady anymore.
Sometimes she would get frustrated when a fork slipped.
I would tell her not to worry.
"We have all afternoon."
She called me Libby-girl.
She had called me that for years, long before the stroke.
I liked hearing it.
It reminded me that we had once been younger women, sitting around a table and talking about ordinary things.
Now she needed me for nearly everything.
I didn't mind helping her.
I minded that Roscoe rarely seemed to understand how much of our life had changed.
He would call from the road.
He always asked about his mother.
Usually, he asked whether she was doing all right.
I would tell him she was fine.
Then he would ask about the boys.
Our son had three children.
Two, seven, and nine.
They stayed with us most weekends.
Those boys brought noise into a house that had become quieter than I liked.
Shoes by the door.
Crumbs under the kitchen table.
Little voices calling for Grandma.
I loved every minute.
Roscoe loved them too.
He called them his boys.
Whenever he came home, he wanted to know what they had been doing.
Sometimes he brought them small things from his travels.
A toy truck.
A cap.
A little souvenir from somewhere they had never been.
He liked seeing their faces when he handed them something.
I used to watch him with them and think that he was a good grandfather.
He wasn't always home, but when he was, he tried to make those few days count.
At least, that was how I saw it.
The boys never complained about his absences.
They understood that Grandpa drove a truck.
They knew he traveled for work.
When they asked where he was, I showed them the map on the wall.
I would point out the states he mentioned on the phone.
"Grandpa's probably around there today."
They liked that.
It made the distance feel smaller.
Roscoe and I had built a life around that distance.
I thought it was something we both understood.
I was wrong about more than I knew.
One Tuesday, he called while I was in the kitchen.
I had been preparing something for supper.
His mother's wheelchair was parked near the living room doorway.
The television was on low.
I picked up the phone.
"Hello, Roscoe."
"Hey, Lib. How's everything?"
"Same as usual."
He asked about his mother.
I told him she had eaten lunch and was resting.
Then he asked about the boys.
I said they were coming over that weekend.
He sounded pleased.
"I can't wait to see those boys."
I smiled.
He sounded like the husband I had known for forty years.
"I'm bringing them something this time," he said.
I asked what it was.
He wouldn't tell me.
"That's for me and the boys."
I laughed.
"All right. Keep your secret."
He said he would be home soon.
Then we talked about ordinary things.
The weather.
His route.
The truck.
Nothing that would have made me remember the conversation later.
Except I did remember it.
Because that phone call gave me an idea.
And that idea was supposed to make everybody happy.
Click here to continue reading: PART 2: The Pizza Box Sign Three Little Boys Made for Their Grandfather Was Supposed to Be a Wonderful Surprise
Forty Years of Goodbyes, Packed Coolers, and Promises I Never Thought I Would Have to Question
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