The following Tuesday, Michael and Jenna came over for dinner.
I had spent most of the afternoon preparing a meal that could have fed twice as many people.
It was an old habit.
Whenever the children were coming home, I cooked as though one of them might bring three unexpected guests.
Walt used to stand in the kitchen and ask whether I expected the whole neighborhood.
I would tell him that he could help by peeling the potatoes.
He usually disappeared before I handed him the knife.
I smiled at the memory while I stirred the soup.
Then I heard a car pull into the driveway.
Michael came through the door carrying a bottle of sparkling water and a bag of rolls.
Jenna followed with a small plant in a clay pot.
"For the kitchen," she explained.
I took it from her.
"It's lovely."
"It reminded me of you."
The plant had small green leaves and a few white flowers.
I placed it beside the window, where the afternoon light reached the table.
Michael looked around the kitchen.
"Something smells good."
"It will smell better when you sit down and let me finish."
He laughed.
"That sounds familiar."
Jenna took off her coat.
"How have you been?"
"All right," I said.
Then I corrected myself.
"Actually, I've been lonely in the evenings. The days are easier because there's always something to do."
Jenna's expression softened.
"Thank you for telling me."
I hadn't expected those words to affect me so much.
For years, I would have said I was fine.
I would have changed the subject and asked about their work.
Instead, I had told her something true.
It didn't make me feel weaker.
It made me feel less alone.
Michael put the rolls on the counter.
"Would you like us to come over more often?"
"Yes," I said. "But I don't want you to feel you have to rearrange your lives every time I have a difficult evening."
"We can work something out," Jenna said.
"Maybe dinner once a week. And a phone call on the other days."
Michael nodded.
"That sounds reasonable."
I looked at both of them.
"I'd like that."
We ate at the kitchen table.
The soup was a little too salty, and the rolls were warmer than I had expected.
Jenna told me about a project at work.
Michael explained that he and Jenna had reviewed their household budget and discussed what changes they might need to make if his business remained slow.
He didn't pretend that everything was fixed.
He also didn't speak as though the problem were a secret he had to solve before anyone could see it.
"I have a meeting with a potential client on Thursday," he said. "If it goes well, it should help."
"And if it doesn't?" I asked.
He thought about it.
"Then I'll keep looking at the numbers and make another plan."
I nodded.
It was a simple answer.
But it was different from the way he used to speak about difficulties.
Before, he would have promised that everything would work out.
Now, he was willing to admit that he didn't know exactly what would happen.
After dinner, Jenna helped me wash the dishes.
Michael carried the folder from the study to the kitchen.
"I've been thinking about Dad's papers," he said.
I dried my hands.
"What about them?"
"I don't think we should keep treating them like a puzzle we have to solve completely."
I looked at him.
"Why not?"
"Because some things won't have answers. We can keep looking at the records, but I don't want us to spend the next ten years trying to guess what he meant by every sentence."
I considered that.
He was right.
The folder had helped us understand some of Walt's choices.
It had also raised questions we might never settle.
I had begun to see that uncertainty didn't always mean something had been left unfinished.
Sometimes it meant we had reached the limit of what the evidence could tell us.
"What do you suggest?" I asked.
Michael opened the folder.
"I think we should make one final list of the things we actually know. Then we can keep the papers together and stop treating every note as if it contains a hidden message."
Jenna joined us at the table.
"I like that idea."
I sat down.
Michael took out a sheet of paper.
At the top, he wrote, "What We Know."
Beneath it, we listed the things we could say with confidence.
Walt had wanted to help his children.
He had sometimes helped without telling them.
He had often confused protecting people with making decisions for them.
He had eventually recognized that his habits had caused pain.
He had tried to apologize through his letters.
And he had left us the opportunity to talk about what had happened.
We didn't write that he had solved every problem.
We didn't write that his intentions made everything right.
We didn't pretend that an apology could erase years of misunderstanding.
When we finished, Michael read the list aloud.
"Does that sound fair?"
I looked at the page.
"Yes."
Jenna rested her hand on his shoulder.
"Then maybe that's enough."
I thought about the years I had spent wanting Walt to explain himself.
I had wanted every disagreement settled and every misunderstanding cleared away.
I had imagined that if we could talk through everything, I would finally feel certain about our marriage.
But certainty was not something any marriage could provide completely.
We had loved one another.
We had hurt one another.
We had shared a home and raised three children.
We had also failed to say things that mattered.
The truth did not become less real because it was complicated.
Michael placed the list inside the folder.
"I'll make copies for Stephanie and Danny."
"Thank you."
He looked at me.
"Mom, I think Dad would have liked this."
"Perhaps."
I touched the edge of the paper.
"But I don't want to do it only because we think he would approve."
Michael smiled.
"Fair point."
We put the folder away.
Then Jenna and Michael helped me clear the kitchen table.
Before they left, Jenna asked whether I wanted to come to their house for dinner the following week.
I said yes.
Michael hugged me at the door.
"I'll call you Thursday after the meeting."
"You don't have to give me a report."
"I know."
He smiled.
"But I want to tell you how it goes."
I watched them walk to their car.
Then I returned to the kitchen.
The small plant stood beside the window.
I watered it carefully.
I had no idea how long it would live or whether I would remember to care for it every week.
But I liked having something new in the room.
Something that belonged to the present rather than the past.
I turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs.
That night, I slept better than I had in months.
Not because every question had been answered.
Because I no longer believed that unanswered questions meant we had failed.
Click here to continue reading: PART 18: When Stephanie Made Her Decision About the New Job, I Learned That Loving My Children Meant Letting Them Choose Lives I Could Not Plan for Them
After Burying My Husband, I Made Three Calls That Revealed What My Children Truly Thought I Was Worth
Part 17 of 20
