The days after Christmas passed quietly.
I went to the bakery most mornings.
I walked through the streets.
I took photographs.
I painted.
I read.
Sometimes I sat in the courtyard for an entire afternoon.
I had never been good at doing nothing.
Even during retirement, I had always found something that needed attention.
A bill.
A phone call.
A grocery list.
A favor for Derek.
There was always something.
In Portugal, I began to enjoy the absence of those things.
I still thought about my family.
I still checked my phone.
But I no longer felt that I had to be available every minute.
That was a new feeling.
It took some getting used to.
One afternoon, I walked into a little shop and bought a postcard.
It showed a narrow street with white walls and blue shutters.
I wrote a message to Joanna.
I told her about the painting I was working on.
I told her about the bakery.
I told her that I was thinking about taking another trip after I returned home.
I didn't know where I would go.
I just liked knowing that I could.
I mailed the postcard.
Then I walked back to the house.
I was beginning to recognize the streets.
I knew where to buy groceries.
I knew which bakery had the best coffee.
I knew where to sit when I wanted to watch people pass.
The town was beginning to feel familiar.
That mattered more than I expected.
Near the end of January, Derek called.
I was sitting at the little table in the courtyard.
My watercolor paper was spread out in front of me.
I had been trying to paint the shadows on a white wall.
The phone rang.
I picked it up.
"Hello, sweetheart."
"Hi, Mom."
His voice sounded different.
He didn't begin by asking whether I could do something for him.
He didn't mention a bill.
He didn't ask about Christmas dinner.
He simply asked how I was doing.
I smiled.
"I'm doing well."
He asked about Portugal.
I told him about the painting lessons I had started taking.
I told him about the little group of travelers I had met.
I told him about the bakery.
He listened.
Then he said something I hadn't expected.
"Mom, I've been thinking about Thanksgiving."
I put down my paintbrush.
I waited.
He took a breath.
"I knew Cassie was being hurtful. I just didn't want to argue with her in front of everyone."
I looked at the courtyard.
The little table.
The paintbrush.
The half-finished watercolor.
I had imagined this conversation many times.
I had imagined him apologizing.
I had imagined him telling me that he understood.
I had imagined him saying that he should have defended me.
But hearing him admit what had happened was different.
He continued.
"I figured you'd understand, like you always do."
I closed my eyes.
That was the part that hurt.
He had known I was upset.
He had known the joke was unkind.
He had simply assumed I would let it go.
Because I always had.
"That's exactly what hurt, Derek."
He was quiet.
I waited.
Then he said, "I didn't realize how much I expected from you."
I looked at the painting.
The blue shutters were crooked.
The shadows were uneven.
I had been trying to make everything look right.
But I had begun to like the imperfections.
They made the painting feel like mine.
Derek told me that he had noticed the difference when I wasn't there.
He had to handle things he had never thought about before.
He had to arrange the bills.
He had to take care of the storage unit.
He had to make decisions about the house.
He had to figure out Christmas dinner.
He admitted that he had been accustomed to my help.
He said he should have appreciated it more.
I listened.
I didn't interrupt.
I wanted him to finish.
"I should have said something at Thanksgiving," he said.
I looked out at the courtyard.
"Yes. You should have."
He didn't argue.
There was no dramatic speech.
No promise that he would never make another mistake.
But he had finally acknowledged what had happened.
That mattered.
We talked for a while longer.
He asked about the children.
I asked about their school.
He told me about something funny one of them had said.
I laughed.
It felt good to talk about ordinary things.
Before we hung up, he said he would call again.
I told him I would like that.
After the call, I sat quietly.
I felt sad.
I also felt hopeful.
Not because everything had been fixed.
It hadn't.
But because Derek had finally stopped pretending that nothing had happened.
A few days later, Cassandra sent me a longer message.
She said she had been thinking about Thanksgiving.
She admitted that she had treated my cooking as something she could count on.
She said she hadn't considered how insulting her joke sounded.
I read the message carefully.
Then I thanked her for apologizing.
I told her that I hoped we could build a warmer relationship without returning to the old arrangement.
She replied that it sounded fair.
I put the phone down.
I didn't feel triumphant.
I didn't feel as though I had won anything.
I simply felt that something had changed.
The old arrangement had been comfortable for everyone except me.
Now, at least, we were beginning to talk about it.
I went back to my painting.
The blue shutters were still crooked.
I decided to leave them that way.
Source: lessoninlife.net
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: When My Eight Weeks in Portugal Came to an End, I Had to Decide Whether Returning Home Meant Returning to My Old Life
I Thought Being a Good Mother Meant Always Saying Yes, Until One Thanksgiving Dinner Made Me Question Everything I Had Given
Part 6 of 13
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