The Saturday after I started my travel notebook, the children arrived just after lunch. This time there was no confusion about the arrangement. Tori had called me the night before, asked whether I was available, and waited for my answer. I had checked my calendar, confirmed that I wanted the visit, and said yes.
The distinction was small enough that another person might have missed it. I didn't. Every time someone asked rather than assumed, it reminded me that the lesson from Japan had become part of our family rather than a temporary correction.
Maggie ran through the front door carrying Bun-Bun. Finn followed with a plastic bag filled with snacks he had apparently chosen himself. Chloe had her notebook, and Eli brought a paperback book he said he wanted to finish before dinner.
“Grandma,” Maggie called, “did you choose where you're going next?”
“Not yet.”
She looked disappointed.
“Why not?”
“Because choosing a destination takes time.”
Finn dropped his bag on the floor.
“Choose somewhere with a pool.”
Chloe rolled her eyes.
“That's because you don't know anything about traveling.”
“I know pools.”
“That doesn't count.”
Eli laughed quietly.
I watched them argue and thought about how much older they seemed than they had on that morning at my door. Perhaps the children hadn't changed as dramatically as I imagined. Perhaps I was simply seeing them differently now. They were not four responsibilities handed to me. They were four individual people becoming themselves.
After lunch, Chloe asked whether she could look at my travel notebook.
I handed it to her.
She read the title on the first page.
“Places I Want to See.”
“That's it.”
“You didn't write where you're going.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don't know yet.”
She considered that.
“Would you go somewhere alone?”
“Maybe.”
“Would you be scared?”
“Probably.”
She smiled.
“You were scared of Portugal.”
“Yes.”
“But you went.”
“Yes.”
She closed the notebook and returned it.
“I think that's good.”
I laughed.
“You sound like my therapist.”
“I don't even know what that means.”
“Neither do I.”
That evening, after dinner, we sat around the living room. Rain tapped against the windows, and the younger children played quietly on the rug. Eli was reading. Chloe was drawing. Maggie had fallen asleep with Bun-Bun under her chin.
Finn looked up suddenly.
“Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“Why did Mom and Dad leave us with you if you were going to Portugal?”
The room became quiet.
I looked at Caleb's oldest son.
He had asked the question without accusation, but I knew the answer mattered.
“Because your parents made a mistake,” I said.
“What kind?”
“The kind adults make when they assume they know what another person will say.”
Eli looked up from his book.
“Dad thought you'd say yes.”
“Yes.”
Finn frowned.
“Why would he think that?”
“Because I had said yes many times before.”
Chloe spoke quietly.
“But that doesn't mean you had to.”
“No.”
She nodded.
“That's what you always tell us.”
“What do I tell you?”
“That you can love somebody and still say no.”
I smiled.
“Yes.”
Eli closed his book.
“Do you think Mom and Dad are different now?”
I looked at all four children.
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Because they ask?”
“That's part of it.”
“What else?”
“They listen when I answer.”
Eli seemed satisfied.
Then he said, “That's probably important.”
I smiled.
“It is.”
Later that night, after the children were asleep, I sat at the kitchen table with my notebook. I had been thinking about what they said.
Children absorb the rules adults live by.
If they saw me constantly surrendering my time, they might grow up believing love required surrender.
If they saw me set boundaries while still showing affection, perhaps they would learn something healthier.
I wrote one sentence in the notebook.
Love does not require disappearance.
Then I closed it.
The next morning, Caleb arrived to pick them up.
He walked into the kitchen while I was making coffee.
“How was everyone?”
“Alive.”
He laughed.
“Good.”
I handed him a mug.
“Sit.”
He looked surprised.
“Do I have permission?”
“Don't get used to it.”
He sat.
For several minutes we talked about ordinary things.
Work.
School.
The weather.
Then Caleb looked toward the mantel.
The Portuguese tile caught the morning light.
“Do you miss Portugal?”
“Yes.”
“Would you go back?”
“Maybe.”
He smiled.
“I think you should.”
I looked at him.
“You're not going to complain about the cost?”
“It's your money.”
“Good answer.”
He laughed.
Then his expression became serious.
“Mom, I've been thinking about something.”
I waited.
“I don't want my kids to grow up thinking family means one person always sacrifices.”
I didn't respond immediately.
“Why are you telling me that?”
“Because I realized I was teaching them that without meaning to.”
He looked down at his coffee.
“I watched you do everything for us and thought that was what love looked like.”
My chest tightened.
“And maybe you watched me too.”
He nodded.
“I did.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand.
“You know what I want you to teach them?”
“What?”
“That helping people is good.”
He nodded.
“But?”
“But you ask first.”
He smiled.
“I can do that.”
“I know.”
He stood to leave.
At the door, he turned.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Have you decided where you're going?”
I shook my head.
“Not yet.”
“Then don't rush.”
I smiled.
“I won't.”
After he left, I opened my notebook again.
I added another sentence.
Don't rush what belongs to you.
For the first time, I began researching destinations seriously.
I considered Greece.
Ireland.
Italy.
Then I found a photograph of the coast of Maine.
I stared at it for several minutes.
It wasn't exotic.
It wasn't far away.
But something about the rocky shoreline and gray-blue water appealed to me.
I wrote Maine.
Then underneath it, I wrote:
Maybe with the children.
The thought surprised me.
Not because I didn't love traveling with them.
Because I realized I could invite them into my life without making my life revolve around them.
That was different.
That afternoon, I called Tori.
“I have a question.”
“Okay.”
“Would you and Caleb be comfortable with me taking the children on a short trip sometime?”
There was a pause.
“Absolutely.”
“I don't know where yet.”
“Wherever you want.”
“And I would decide the dates.”
“Of course.”
I smiled.
“Good.”
Tori laughed softly.
“It's strange hearing you say that.”
“What?”
“That you're making plans without apologizing.”
I looked at the notebook.
“I think I'm getting better at it.”
“You are.”
We hung up.
I sat on the porch until sunset.
The future no longer felt like something that would happen after everyone else had finished needing me.
It felt open.
And I had finally learned that open was not the same as uncertain.
Sometimes open simply meant there was room to choose.
Click here to continue reading: PART 10: A Trip With the Grandchildren Became More Than a Vacation When Myrna Realized the Lesson of the Red Folder Was Already Passing Into Another Generation
Four Children Arrived Before Sunrise With Packed Bags, While the Woman Who Loved Them Realized Someone Had Quietly Stolen Her Plans
Part 9 of 12
