The weeks passed.
My routine slowly became theirs.
I woke early because Ryan sometimes wanted breakfast before work.
I cleaned the kitchen.
I prepared meals.
I washed clothes.
I made sure the house was ready whenever they decided to visit.
There was always something waiting.
A pile of laundry.
A shopping list.
A request for dinner.
I had become so accustomed to doing these things that I rarely questioned them.
But I began noticing something.
Ryan never asked whether I wanted to do them.
He only asked whether I could.
There was a difference.
One Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea.
I had planned to spend the day sorting through my husband's photographs.
I had taken out an old box and placed it beside me.
There were pictures from our wedding, family holidays, and birthdays.
I was looking at one photograph when my phone rang.
Ryan.
"Mom, we're coming over."
I glanced at the clock.
"All right."
"Can you prepare lunch?"
I looked at the photograph again.
"What time?"
"About noon."
I put the picture back into the box.
Then I went to the kitchen.
By the time they arrived, the food was ready.
Chloe walked in and immediately asked whether I had remembered the shopping items she had mentioned.
I told her I hadn't gone shopping yet.
She looked disappointed.
"Oh. I thought you were going this morning."
I didn't remind her that she had never actually asked me to go.
I simply said I would do it later.
Ryan ate his lunch.
Then he asked whether I could help organize some things they had brought.
They were boxes from their apartment.
Apparently, they needed somewhere to keep them temporarily.
I looked at the boxes stacked near the hallway.
"How long will these stay here?"
"Not long," Ryan answered.
I believed him.
I usually did.
After they left, I carried the empty plates to the kitchen.
Then I looked at the photographs still sitting on the table.
I had not opened the box again.
That happened more often than I wanted to admit.
My own plans kept disappearing beneath their requests.
One evening, I found myself standing in the bedroom, looking at my husband's side of the wardrobe.
His clothes were still hanging there.
I had avoided touching them because I couldn't decide what to keep and what to give away.
I reached for one of his shirts.
It still smelled faintly familiar.
I held it for a moment.
Then I heard the front door.
Ryan and Chloe had arrived.
I put the shirt back.
They wanted dinner.
Again.
I went downstairs.
There were times when I wondered whether Ryan understood what I was going through.
He had lost his father too.
Perhaps he was dealing with his grief in his own way.
I tried to be patient.
I tried to remember that he was still my son.
But grief did not explain everything.
It did not explain why Chloe could leave her belongings scattered around my house.
It did not explain why Ryan became irritated when I asked for a little notice before they arrived.
And it certainly did not explain why I was expected to keep working when I needed rest.
One afternoon, I mentioned that I wanted to visit somewhere for a few days.
I didn't have a destination in mind.
I just wanted to get out of the house.
Ryan looked up from his phone.
"Where would you go?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere peaceful."
He laughed lightly.
"Mom, you don't need to be traveling around. You've got everything here."
I looked at him.
Everything.
He said it as though my entire world consisted of a kitchen, a washing machine, and a house full of memories.
Chloe joined the conversation.
"Besides, we rely on you quite a bit."
I waited for her to say something else.
She didn't.
That sentence seemed to settle the matter.
They relied on me.
So my wishes had to wait.
I said nothing.
But something inside me had changed.
I began paying closer attention to my own thoughts.
I noticed how often I felt anxious when my phone rang.
I noticed how quickly I apologized whenever I couldn't do something.
I noticed that I had stopped making plans because I was afraid someone might need me.
That was not the life my husband and I had imagined.
One evening, I was sitting alone in the living room.
The television was on, but I wasn't watching.
My husband's chair was beside mine.
I looked at it for a long time.
I remembered a conversation we had once had about retirement.
He had wanted to see the sea from somewhere other than our usual holiday destination.
He wanted to wake up in a different place every few weeks.
I had laughed and told him he was dreaming too much.
He had smiled.
"One day, we'll do it."
I swallowed.
One day had come and gone.
But perhaps the dream did not have to disappear with him.
The thought frightened me.
It also made me feel something I hadn't felt in months.
Possibility.
The next morning, I took out the papers we had kept together.
I looked through the things connected to our future plans.
There were old notes.
A few travel brochures.
Some handwritten reminders.
Nothing that could bring him back.
But they reminded me that I was still alive.
I was still allowed to want something.
That afternoon, Ryan called.
He wanted to know whether I could prepare dinner for them.
I looked at the clock.
Then I looked at the papers on the table.
For the first time, I didn't immediately agree.
"I'll have to see."
There was a silence.
"See what?"
"I have a few things to do."
He sounded surprised.
"All right. Just let us know."
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking.
It was such a small refusal.
But it felt enormous.
I sat back in my chair.
For once, I had chosen something without first considering whether Ryan and Chloe would approve.
And I wasn't finished.
Click here to continue reading: PART 3: I Started Looking at the Dream My Husband Had Left Behind, While My Son Assumed I Would Always Be Waiting at Home
After My Husband’s Funeral, My Son Started Treating My Home Like His Own and My Life Like Something He Could Control
Part 2 of 4
