“I thought it made me a bad daughter-in-law,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you were helping us.”
“Help can still become too much.”
She nodded.
“I should have spoken up.”
“So should I.”
That became a theme in our family.
Not blame.
Responsibility.
There was plenty to go around.
By November, I had signed an agreement with a local rental manager.
I kept the weeks surrounding Robert’s birthday for myself.
Not because I wanted to sit alone and mourn.
Because I wanted the freedom to choose what the day would be.
Christmas arrived.
For the first time in thirty-six years, I did not host.
Brenda did.
Her turkey was dry.
Douglas forgot cranberry sauce.
Gregory arrived forty minutes late.
Jennifer brought a pie that slid sideways in the car and looked like a geological event.
It was one of the best Christmases I could remember.
I brought nothing except flowers.
