PART 10 – Christmas Eve Was Getting Closer, and I Had to Decide Whether I Could Accept a Promise Without Knowing Exactly What It Meant

The closer Christmas came, the more I noticed the date in my mind.

December 24.

I had not marked it on my calendar.

I didn't need to.

It was already there, attached to the yellow paper and the photographs in Wendell's garage.

I found myself thinking about the message while doing ordinary things.

I thought about it while making coffee.

I thought about it while folding laundry.

Sometimes I remembered the look on Wendell's face when he saw me standing beneath the photographs.

That expression had stayed with me.

He had looked like somebody whose private thoughts had suddenly become visible.

I understood that feeling.

There were things I kept to myself because I wasn't ready to explain them.

There were memories I could share easily and others I guarded even from people I loved.

But I had never expected Wendell to know those boundaries without my telling him.

I had tried to learn his without making him explain them.

In doing so, I had allowed my own needs to disappear.

I didn't want to do that anymore.

I wanted to enjoy the anticipation of Christmas without turning it into another test of whether Wendell cared about me.

I also wanted him to understand that the day mattered because he had made it matter.

The date wasn't just a date now.

It had become a promise neither of us had fully explained.

I wondered what would happen if the day arrived and nothing changed.

Would I feel foolish for hoping?

Would I be angry with him?

Would I find myself back where I had started, making excuses for a man who couldn't let me into his life?

I didn't want to spend the weeks leading up to Christmas rehearsing disappointments that hadn't happened.

So I tried to be present.

When Wendell and I spoke, I listened to what he actually said.

When he showed affection, I accepted it without demanding that it prove something about the future.

When he made me laugh, I let myself enjoy it.

That last part was harder than it sounds.

After Dwight died, happiness sometimes felt like something I had to justify.

I could enjoy a pleasant afternoon and still feel guilty when I returned home.

I could laugh with Wendell and then wonder whether I had laughed too freely.

It was as if grief had become a responsibility I was afraid to neglect.

I knew that wasn't fair to myself.

I knew it wasn't what love was supposed to require.

Still, old habits are stubborn.

One evening, I found myself looking at Dwight's photograph while thinking about the Christmas ahead.

I remembered how he used to approach the holiday.

He wasn't a man who needed everything to be perfect.

He cared more about the people around the table than the food on it.

If something went wrong, he usually found a way to make a joke.

I missed that about him.

I missed the ease of being with somebody who knew my history because he had lived through so much of it beside me.

Wendell couldn't replace that.

He wasn't supposed to.

He had his own life, his own memories, and his own reasons for doing things the way he did.

If I wanted a relationship with him, I had to allow it to become something different from the marriage I had lost.

That realization brought sadness.

It also brought relief.

I didn't have to choose between remembering Dwight and caring about Wendell.

I didn't have to make one man smaller to make room for the other.

I could carry the past with me without demanding that the future resemble it.

That was what I wanted to believe.

And for the first time, I thought I might be able to live that way.

When Wendell mentioned Christmas again, I told him I was looking forward to seeing him.

I didn't hide behind a joke.

I didn't pretend the day was unimportant.

He looked pleased, though he seemed careful not to show too much.

"I want it to be a good day," he said.

"So do I."

He hesitated.

"I've been working on things."

I looked at him.

"What kind of things?"

He smiled a little.

"The kind I should have told you about sooner."

I felt a warmth spread through my chest.

It wasn't a complete answer.

But it was a different kind of answer from the ones I had received before.

He was acknowledging the secrecy rather than pretending it had never happened.

I appreciated that.

I also understood that he was asking me to be patient a little longer.

I considered telling him that I had already been patient for months.

The words came close to my lips.

Then I stopped.

I didn't want to use the past as a weapon.

I wanted to tell him what I needed now.

"I can wait until Christmas," I said. "But I don't want to spend the day feeling like I'm still outside your life."

His smile disappeared.

He listened carefully.

"I understand."

I searched his face.

"Do you?"

"I think I do."

That answer wasn't perfect.

At least he hadn't pretended to understand everything.

I nodded.

"Then that's what matters to me."

He took my hand.

I let him hold it.

I wasn't surrendering my judgment.

I was allowing myself to hope.

Those are not the same thing, although I had confused them before.

After we parted that evening, I felt calmer.

I had said what I needed to say.

I had given Wendell a chance to respond.

Now it was his turn to decide what he would do with that chance.

I couldn't make the decision for him.

And I couldn't protect myself from every possible disappointment.

I had spent too much of my life trying to do that.

If Christmas Eve turned out differently from what I imagined, I would deal with it when it came.

If Wendell kept his word, I would let myself enjoy what he had prepared.

For once, I wanted to meet the day as it was rather than as I feared it might be.

I thought of the yellow paper again.

For my Winnie.

The words had been written in a plain hand on an ordinary sheet.

They had not promised perfection.

They had simply told me that I mattered to someone.

I decided I could accept that much without demanding that it answer every question.

Not yet.

Click here to continue reading: PART 11: I Had Spent So Long Protecting Myself From Another Loss That I Almost Failed to Notice When Someone Was Trying to Make Room for Me