The first morning in Óbidos, I woke up before sunrise.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was.
Then I remembered.
Portugal.
The little house.
The blue shutters.
I lay in bed and listened.
There were footsteps outside.
A door opened.
Someone called to another person.
Then I heard the sound of a cart rolling over the cobblestones.
I got up.
I made coffee.
I ate a piece of bread with cheese.
Then I stood beside the kitchen window and looked out at the courtyard.
I had no idea what I was supposed to do next.
I had spent so many years waking up with a list of responsibilities that an empty morning felt almost uncomfortable.
I thought about Derek.
I thought about the children.
I wondered whether Cassandra had managed to organize Christmas dinner.
Then I stopped myself.
I had come all this way.
I wanted to enjoy it.
I put on my coat and walked toward the bakery Inês had recommended.
The streets were narrow.
The buildings were white.
The shutters were painted blue.
I passed a little shop selling postcards.
I passed a woman carrying a basket.
I passed two men standing outside a café, talking.
Nobody knew who I was.
Nobody knew that I had spent Thanksgiving cooking for twelve people.
Nobody knew that my son had looked away when his wife insulted me.
Nobody expected me to prepare dinner.
I was simply a woman walking through a Portuguese town.
I entered the bakery.
The smell of fresh bread filled the room.
I ordered coffee and a pastel de nata.
Then I sat beside the window.
I watched people come and go.
A man greeted the woman behind the counter.
A child pointed at something in the display.
Someone laughed.
I took a bite of the pastry.
It was warm.
The coffee was strong.
I smiled.
Nothing special.
But it felt special to me.
I spent the rest of the morning walking through the streets.
I photographed doorways.
I looked at little shops.
I stopped to admire flowers growing beside a wall.
I bought a small notebook.
I had brought a journal from home, but I wanted something that belonged to this trip.
That afternoon, I sat in the courtyard and tried to paint the view from my bedroom window.
I had packed watercolors.
I hadn't used them in years.
I dipped the brush into the blue paint.
Then I looked at the window.
I tried to draw the shutters.
The first attempt was terrible.
The lines were crooked.
The colors ran together.
I stared at the page.
Then I laughed.
It looked as though someone had dropped a blue towel into a bowl of soup.
I turned the page.
I tried again.
The second painting wasn't much better.
But I liked it.
I liked sitting there with nothing to prove.
I liked making mistakes without anyone watching.
I liked the fact that nobody was waiting for me to finish.
Over the next few days, I began to feel more comfortable.
I visited the bakery every morning.
I walked through the old streets.
I read in the courtyard.
I took photographs of things that would probably seem ordinary to someone who lived there.
A window.
A flowerpot.
A cat sitting on a wall.
I sent pictures to Joanna.
She replied with little messages and questions.
She wanted to know what I had eaten.
She wanted to see the paintings.
She wanted to know whether I had found a place to buy groceries.
I told her about the bakery.
I told her about the courtyard.
I told her about the terrible watercolor.
She laughed.
I could hear it through the phone.
I hadn't realized how much I had missed talking about ordinary things.
A week before Christmas, Derek emailed me.
He confirmed that he had transferred the subscriptions and arranged to pay for the storage unit.
He admitted that he hadn't realized how many expenses I had been covering.
I thanked him.
Then I asked about the children.
He sent me a friendly reply.
For the first time in weeks, our conversation didn't revolve around something he needed me to do.
I read the message twice.
Then I closed my laptop.
I was beginning to understand that loving someone didn't mean being responsible for every part of their life.
It meant allowing them to live their own lives.
And allowing myself to live mine.
On Christmas Eve, I walked through Óbidos.
The streets were decorated.
There were lights hanging above the narrow roads.
People were carrying bags of gifts.
I stopped at a little shop and bought a few small presents to bring home.
I thought about my grandchildren.
I thought about Joanna.
I thought about Derek.
I missed them.
But I didn't regret coming.
That afternoon, Cassandra sent me a message.
"We're doing a smaller dinner tomorrow. I ordered the turkey from a local place. It's not the same as yours."
I smiled.
I wasn't sure whether she was complaining or offering a compliment.
Then another message appeared.
"I probably shouldn't have said what I said at Thanksgiving. I was trying to be funny."
I read it carefully.
It wasn't a complete apology.
But it was more acknowledgment than she had offered before.
I thought about how I wanted to answer.
I didn't want to start another argument.
I didn't want to pretend the remark hadn't hurt.
I wanted her to understand why it mattered.
So I wrote:
"I appreciate you reaching out. What you said hurt because cooking is something I do for people I love, not all that I am."
I sent the message.
Then I put my phone down.
I didn't expect an immediate reply.
I didn't need one.
I went outside and sat in the courtyard.
The air was cool.
The lights from the street reflected against the white walls.
I could hear church bells in the distance.
For a moment, I thought about Leonard.
I wished he could have seen the little house.
I wished he could have sat beside me in the courtyard.
I wished we had been able to travel together.
But I also knew that he would have wanted me to enjoy the life we had saved for.
I sat there until the air became cold.
Then I went inside.
I made a simple dinner.
I washed my plate.
I put the kettle on.
And I waited for Christmas morning.
Source: lessoninlife.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 5: Christmas Was the First Holiday I Had Ever Spent Alone, and I Was Surprised by What I Missed Most About Being Home
I Thought Being a Good Mother Meant Always Saying Yes, Until One Thanksgiving Dinner Made Me Question Everything I Had Given
Part 4 of 13
