The following morning, Greg made another comment about my bedroom.
He was standing near the hallway when I came downstairs.
"That room is looking pretty empty."
I nodded.
"It is."
He smiled.
"Could be useful."
I looked at him.
He continued talking about space.
He mentioned the closet again.
He said he had golf equipment that needed somewhere to go.
I wondered whether he ever stopped to think about how strange it was to discuss my bedroom as if I had already given it away.
Apparently not.
I went into the kitchen.
Sarah was preparing breakfast.
She asked whether I wanted coffee.
I said yes.
She poured me a cup.
For a moment, things felt almost normal.
Then she asked whether I had decided what to do with the rest of my belongings.
I told her I was organizing them.
She nodded.
"There's a lot less clutter now."
I looked at her.
I wondered whether she remembered the baking sheets.
The ones my grandmother had used.
The ones she had wanted to throw away because her juicer needed the space.
I had packed them safely.
They were not clutter to me.
They were memories.
I finished my coffee and went upstairs.
The room was nearly finished.
I had kept only the things I needed nearby.
A few clothes.
Some personal items.
My purse.
The boxes stood against the wall.
I checked them carefully.
One contained the photographs.
Another held the china.
The books were packed separately.
I had taken care with everything.
I wanted to know where each thing was.
There was something comforting about that.
For so long, I had felt that my belongings were being moved around according to somebody else's convenience.
Now I was making the decisions.
Later that day, Sarah came into the room.
She looked at the boxes.
"How long have you been doing this?"
I looked up.
"Some time."
She seemed troubled.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
I set down the item in my hand.
"Would you have listened?"
She did not answer.
I regretted the sharpness of my question almost immediately.
But I did not take it back.
Sarah looked toward the closet.
Then she noticed the photographs were gone.
She walked closer.
"Where did you put Dad's pictures?"
I told her they were packed safely.
She looked relieved.
"I thought you might be throwing them away."
I shook my head.
"Never."
She touched the edge of a box.
For a moment, she looked like the little girl who used to ask me where we kept the family albums.
Then she straightened.
"Greg wants to reorganize the garage."
I looked at her.
"What about it?"
"He wants to move some things around."
I almost laughed.
Even now, she was discussing Greg's plans as if they were the natural center of every household decision.
I told her he could discuss any changes with me.
She frowned.
"Why does everything have to become a discussion?"
I looked at her.
"Because it's my home."
She left without answering.
That afternoon, I went outside.
My car was still parked in the driveway.
The garage door was open.
Greg's equipment filled most of the space.
I stood there for a moment.
I remembered when my husband and I had first bought the house.
We had parked both of our cars inside.
There had been shelves along one wall.
My husband kept his tools there.
He had always known where everything was.
I remembered the smell of the garage after he had finished working.
Oil.
Wood.
A little dust.
It had been his space.
Then it had become Greg's gym.
I walked back inside.
I did not ask him to move anything.
I had other matters to handle.
That evening, I met Thomas again.
We discussed the documents and the arrangements.
I told him about the conversations at home.
He listened.
I wanted to make sure that nothing was being misunderstood.
I did not want to make a decision that would create unnecessary problems.
Thomas went through the relevant details with me.
I asked questions.
He answered them.
I felt better afterward.
When I returned home, Sarah was sitting in the living room.
She looked up.
"Did you see Thomas?"
"Yes."
She sighed.
"I wish you would tell us what he's doing."
I took off my coat.
"He's helping me with my affairs."
"But what affairs?"
I looked at her.
"My own."
She shook her head.
I did not continue the conversation.
I went upstairs.
Before going to bed, I checked the white envelope.
I made sure the document was safe.
Then I placed it back inside my purse.
I had no reason to carry it around every day anymore.
But I wanted it where I could find it.
The envelope had become more than a piece of paper.
It reminded me that I was allowed to make decisions without waiting for someone else to approve them.
I turned off the light.
The room was quiet.
For once, that quiet did not make me feel lonely.
Click here to continue reading: PART 11: My Daughter Asked Whether I Still Loved Her, and I Finally Understood How Much Pain We Had Both Been Avoiding
My Daughter Had Forgotten Whose House She Was Living In, But I Had Not Forgotten What It Once Meant to Me
Part 10 of 20
