Stephanie called the following afternoon.
I was in the backyard, checking the soil around Walt's tree.
The rain had softened the ground, and a few leaves had gathered along the fence.
I brushed them aside and answered the phone.
"Hi, sweetheart."
"Mom, are you busy?"
"Not particularly."
"Could I come over?"
"Of course."
She arrived less than an hour later.
She carried no food this time, only her handbag and a notebook.
When she sat at the kitchen table, she kept the notebook closed.
I made tea and waited for her to speak.
"I've been thinking about the conversation we had yesterday," she said.
"So have I."
"About Dad. About the way he made decisions for us."
I nodded.
Stephanie looked down at her hands.
"I have a decision to make at work, and I keep wanting someone to tell me what to do."
"What kind of decision?"
"They've offered me a position in another city."
I sat down.
"That sounds important."
"It is. The job would be a promotion, and the salary is better. But I'd have to move."
"How do you feel about that?"
She gave a frustrated sigh.
"That's the problem. I don't know."
I waited.
Stephanie explained that the position would give her more responsibility.
She would manage a larger team and have a chance to work on projects she had wanted to pursue for years.
But the move would take her away from the friends she had built her life around.
She would also be farther from me and her brothers.
"I keep thinking about what Dad would say," she admitted.
"What do you think he would say?"
"He'd tell me to take the job. He always believed I should push myself harder."
I considered that.
"He might have."
"Then another part of me thinks he'd tell me not to take it because he'd worry about me being alone."
"That might also be true."
Stephanie gave me a weary smile.
"See? I can't even imagine what he would say without arguing with myself."
I reached for my tea.
"Perhaps you don't need to decide what your father would say."
She looked up.
"What do you mean?"
"You're not asking him to make the decision. You're trying to guess which version of him would approve."
Stephanie stared at the table.
I knew I had touched something important.
"I suppose I am."
"Then let's begin with you."
She opened her notebook.
"I've written down the advantages and disadvantages."
"Good."
"But the list doesn't help."
"Why not?"
"Because every point has another point on the other side."
She turned the notebook toward me.
The advantages included better pay, more experience, and the chance to do work she found meaningful.
The disadvantages included moving, leaving familiar people, and starting again somewhere new.
I read the list carefully.
"Which part frightens you most?"
She thought for a long time.
"That I'll make the wrong choice and spend years regretting it."
I nodded.
"That's a frightening possibility."
"You don't have to agree with me."
"I'm not agreeing that you'll make the wrong choice. I'm agreeing that making a decision when both options matter can be frightening."
She closed the notebook.
"I wish someone could tell me which choice is right."
"Sometimes there isn't one perfect choice."
"That isn't very helpful."
"No," I admitted. "But it may be true."
She leaned back in her chair.
I remembered how often I had tried to remove uncertainty from my children's lives.
When they were small, I had chosen their clothes and packed their lunches.
When they were teenagers, I had tried to steer them away from mistakes.
As adults, I had continued offering advice even when they hadn't asked for it.
I had believed that experience gave me the right to point out the safest path.
But safety wasn't always the same as happiness.
And a life without mistakes was not a life anyone could promise.
"Can I tell you something?" I asked.
"Please."
"When your father and I were young, I wanted to study nursing."
Stephanie looked surprised.
"You never told me that."
"I didn't think it was worth mentioning."
"Why didn't you do it?"
I looked out the window.
"Your father had a job opportunity in another town. We were newly married, and I thought we should take the chance while it was available."
"Did you want to move?"
"Part of me did. Part of me wanted to stay and study. I never really decided which mattered more."
"What happened?"
"We moved. Then we had you. Then Michael. Then Danny. Life filled up with other things."
I smiled faintly.
"I don't regret having you children. I never want you to think that."
"I don't."
"But sometimes I wonder who I might have become if I'd made a different choice."
Stephanie's eyes softened.
"Do you wish you'd stayed?"
"Sometimes. Other times, I think about the life we built and feel grateful for it."
I took a breath.
"Both feelings can exist together."
She looked at me for a long moment.
"Is that why you want me to take the job?"
"No."
"Then why?"
"Because I want you to choose for yourself. Not because you think your father would approve, and not because you think I need you nearby."
Stephanie lowered her eyes.
"I do worry about leaving you."
I reached across the table.
"You can love me from another city."
"I know."
"And if you stay, I want it to be because you want the life you have here. Not because you think you have to look after me."
She held my hand.
"I don't want to abandon you."
"You wouldn't be abandoning me."
I smiled.
"I'm not helpless, Stephanie. I may need help sometimes, but I can ask for it."
She laughed through the tears gathering in her eyes.
"You're making it sound so easy."
"It isn't easy. But it is honest."
We sat together for a while.
Then she opened her notebook again.
This time, she wrote a new question beneath the list.
If nobody else had an opinion, what would I want?
She read it aloud.
"I think that's the question I should have started with."
"What does your answer say?"
She looked at the page.
"I want to try the job. I'm scared of moving, but I'm also excited."
"Then you have something to think about."
"What if I regret it?"
"Then you'll deal with the regret if it comes. You don't have to live through every possible future before you choose one."
Stephanie smiled.
"Did you learn that from Dad's papers?"
"No. I think I'm learning it from you."
She closed the notebook.
For the first time since she arrived, she looked relaxed.
"I'll ask them for a few days to consider the offer."
"That sounds sensible."
"And I'll visit the city before I decide."
"That sounds sensible, too."
She stood and carried her cup to the sink.
Then she turned back toward me.
"Mom, thank you for not telling me what to do."
I felt a small ache in my chest.
"I should have done that more often."
She came over and hugged me.
"You were trying to help."
"So was your father."
I held her for a moment.
"Trying to help doesn't mean we always get it right."
When she left, I stayed at the kitchen table.
Her notebook was no longer there, but I could still picture the question she had written.
If nobody else had an opinion, what would I want?
I thought about my own life.
I thought about the years I had spent trying to be the dependable wife, the patient mother, and the person who never needed too much.
I had loved those roles.
I had also hidden inside them.
Perhaps it wasn't too late to ask myself what I wanted now.
I could still spend time with friends.
I could take the short trip I had postponed.
I could clear Walt's study when I was ready rather than when I thought other people expected me to.
I could allow my children to help me without asking them to make every decision for me.
That evening, I took a notebook from the drawer.
On the first page, I wrote one sentence.
What do I want my life to look like now?
I didn't write an answer immediately.
I left the question there.
For once, I was willing to let it remain unanswered until I had something honest to say.
Click here to continue reading: PART 16: When Danny Came to Me With His Own Worries, I Finally Understood What It Meant to Let My Children Help Without Trying to Fix Everything
After Burying My Husband, I Made Three Calls That Revealed What My Children Truly Thought I Was Worth
Part 15 of 20
