I straightened the folds in my navy-blue dress one more time, smoothing out wrinkles that probably existed only in my imagination. It was the kind of dress I’d always thought appropriate for family dinners—not so formal that Marissa would roll her eyes and make some cutting remark about me “trying too hard,” but decent enough that I wouldn’t look sloppy or like I hadn’t made an effort. At seventy-seven years old, I’d long since stopped chasing fashion trends or worrying about what strangers thought of my appearance, but I’d always liked to look neat and presentable, especially for my family.
Garrett had called yesterday saying dinner would start at seven o’clock sharp.
I still had a full hour before I needed to leave. I looked around my living room, taking in the familiar landscape of my life—every single thing in this room told a story, bore witness to a memory.
There was the picture of James and me at our golden wedding anniversary, both of us beaming despite the gray in our hair and the lines on our faces. Little Garrett with his first fishing rod, holding up the small bass he’d caught at Lake Winston, his gap-toothed smile so proud.
Toby and Rebecca in their high school graduation gowns, standing on either side of me in front of the school gymnasium.
These photographs were silent witnesses to a time when everything had seemed simpler, when family meant unconditional love rather than complicated transactions. My gaze lingered on James’s picture—the one from our fortieth anniversary, just two years before he passed. What would he do in this situation?
Fifteen years have passed since I lost him, and I still mentally consult him when facing difficult decisions, still imagine his steady voice offering guidance.
“Edith, don’t let yourself get hurt by people who don’t appreciate you,” he would say in that firm but gentle way of his. James had always known how to set boundaries, even with his own son when it was necessary.
I, on the other hand, had never mastered that skill. I gave and gave, hoping that generosity would somehow transform into genuine affection.
The phone vibrated sharply against the wooden coffee table, pulling me from my thoughts.
A message from Garrett. Smiling, I reached for my reading glasses, expecting perhaps a clarification about tonight’s dinner—maybe asking if I needed help getting to their new home, though he rarely offered such assistance anymore. The house was forty minutes away, and he knew I didn’t like driving at night.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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