PART6
“You don’t know what it feels like to be twenty-three years old and have your husband tell you that you’re not enough. You don’t know what it feels like to sit in a bus barn and cry because you think every other woman has something you don’t.”
He wiped his eyes.
“I am sorry.”
“I know you are.”
I paused.
“But an apology doesn’t give me back those years.”
He nodded.
“I know.”
I looked down at the report.
Then something inside me settled.
Not anger.
Not revenge.
Just a strange, peaceful understanding.
I had spent too much of my life believing that Garland had taken something from me.
But he hadn’t taken my ability to love.
He hadn’t taken my ability to raise children.
And he certainly hadn’t taken away my chance to become a mother.
I looked at Richard.
“Thank you for telling me.”
He nodded.
“You deserved to know.”
I reached for his hand.
“Your mother must be proud of the man you’ve become.”
He smiled sadly.
“Thank you.”
The birthday party eventually returned to normal.
The cake was cut.
People sang.
Garland blew out his seventy-five candles, although he needed help with the last few.
His three sons stood beside him.
Bonnie smiled for the photographs, but she barely spoke to anyone.
I didn’t stay until the end.
At around eight-thirty, I gathered my purse and called the children together.
David put on my coat.
Rebecca collected the grandchildren’s jackets.
Michael carried the leftover cake somebody had packed for us.
And Evelyn came running toward me with her little drawing.
“Mama, don’t forget this!”
I smiled.
“I wouldn’t forget it for the world.”
She held it up.
“Can we put it on your refrigerator?”
“That’s exactly where it’s going.”
As we reached the door, Garland called my name.
“Della.”
I turned.
He was standing near the birthday table.
His hands were in his pockets.
“Will you let me see you again?”
I looked at him for a long moment.
I thought about the twenty-three-year-old woman who had once waited by a window for his truck to come home.
I thought about the sixty-five-year-old woman standing in front of him now.
They were not the same person.
And that was a good thing.
“I don’t know, Garland.”
He nodded.
“I understand.”
Then he said something I didn’t expect.
“Thank you for bringing your children.”
I smiled.
“They’re not decorations, Garland. They’re my life.”
“I know.”
“And I’m glad you got to meet them.”
He looked at David.
Then Rebecca.
Then Michael, Samuel, and Thomas.
“They’re good people.”
“They are.”
He swallowed.
“You did a wonderful job.”
For a second, I couldn’t answer.
Then I said, “We did all right.”
He looked confused.
I explained.
“They helped raise me too.”
He nodded slowly.
I turned toward the door.
And this time, when I walked away from Garland Hatchett, I didn’t look back.
THE LAST CHRISTMAS STOCKING
Three months passed.
Life returned to its ordinary rhythm.
I planted tomatoes.
Ernestine complained about her knees.
David came over every Saturday to fix something I hadn’t asked him to fix.
Rebecca called every Wednesday.
Michael sent photographs of his children.
Samuel brought me a new television because he said mine was older than the grandchildren.
Thomas still forgot to call before visiting.
And I still counted the Christmas stockings.
But something had changed.
I no longer thought about 1984 every time somebody mentioned children.
I no longer wondered what my life might have been like if Garland had stayed.
I had stopped measuring my happiness against the life I never got to live.
Then, one afternoon in December, a letter arrived.
This time, it was from Garland himself.
His handwriting was shaky.
I opened it at the kitchen table.
Dear Della,
I have been thinking about what you said at my birthday.
You told me that an apology doesn’t give you back the years.
I’ve been trying to understand that.
For most of my life, I told myself I left because I wanted children. The truth is that I was frightened. I was ashamed of my own medical problems, and instead of facing them, I blamed you.
I made you carry a burden that was never yours.
I cannot undo what I did.
I also cannot ask you to make me feel better about it.
I only want you to know that you were never the woman I made you believe you were.
You were enough in 1984.
You were enough every year after that.
And you are enough now.
I hope your children know how lucky they are.
Garland.
I read the letter twice.
Then I folded it and put it in the drawer beside my mother’s old recipe cards.
I didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because I had finally stopped needing those words.
Christmas Eve arrived.
My house was full.
The kitchen smelled like roasted turkey, sweet potatoes, and the pecan pie Ernestine insisted on making even though she always burned the edges.
David was outside with Michael, trying to untangle the Christmas lights.
Rebecca was arguing with her husband about how to arrange the dining chairs.
Samuel was teaching the grandchildren a card game.
Thomas had brought too much food, as usual.
I stood in the doorway and watched them.
Five children.
Six grandchildren.
Eleven people who had come into my life through different doors.
Eleven people who had made a home with me.
Then Evelyn came running toward me.
“Grandma!”
“Yes, baby?”
“Can we hang the stockings now?”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
We went into the living room.
There were twelve stockings hanging across the fireplace.
One for me.
Five for my children.
Six for the grandchildren.
I had counted them so many times over the years that I could have done it with my eyes closed.
Evelyn pointed to the biggest stocking.
“That’s yours, Grandma.”
“It is.”
“Why is yours bigger?”
“Because I’m the oldest.”
She giggled.
Then she asked a question.
“Grandma, did you always have us?”
I knelt beside her.
“No, sweetheart. I didn’t.”
“Then when did you get us?”
