By the time I thought about the yellow paper again, I had begun to see how much meaning I had placed on it.
For my Winnie.
The words were still there in my memory, clear and familiar.
I could picture the handwriting.
I could picture the two pieces of blue painter's tape.
I could see the date beneath them.
But I was no longer trying to make those details tell me everything.
They had already told me one important thing.
Wendell had been thinking about me.
That mattered.
It did not tell me why he had been thinking about me, or what he hoped I would understand.
Those answers still belonged to him.
I had to accept that.
For a while, I had treated the unknown as if it were a problem I could solve by being more observant.
I had watched Wendell's expressions.
I had remembered his words.
I had searched my own memories for some explanation I might have missed.
But no amount of remembering could replace the conversation we needed to have.
I could not read his mind.
He could not read mine.
If we wanted to understand each other, we would have to speak.
That truth seemed obvious when I said it to myself.
It had taken me longer to live as though I believed it.
I had spent years building a life with Dwight.
We had learned each other over time.
We had learned which silences were comfortable and which meant something needed attention.
Even then, we had not always understood each other.
No relationship gave two people perfect knowledge of one another.
It only gave them chances to keep learning.
I wanted that kind of chance with Wendell.
Not the same life I had shared with Dwight.
Not a replacement for what was gone.
Something different.
Something that belonged to the two of us.
But a future could not be built only from warm moments and good intentions.
It needed honesty.
It needed the willingness to talk when one person felt uncertain.
It needed enough trust for each person to admit what was difficult.
I wanted Wendell to know that I was willing to offer those things.
I also needed to know whether he was willing to offer them to me.
I had tried to make myself patient enough that he would never feel pressured.
Now I understood that no relationship could grow if one person did all the waiting.
There had to be movement from both sides.
I didn't need Wendell to tell me everything in a single conversation.
I didn't need him to explain every part of his past.
I needed him to stop leaving me to guess about the things he had chosen to bring into our relationship.
The yellow paper had become part of our relationship the moment I saw it.
The photographs had become part of it, too.
Even the date had become something I thought about whenever we discussed Christmas.
I couldn't pretend those things no longer mattered simply because I wanted the evening to go well.
But I didn't want to use them as weapons, either.
I wasn't preparing a list of his mistakes.
I was preparing to tell him how I felt.
There was a difference.
One approach would have turned the conversation into a contest.
The other might allow us to understand what had happened between us.
I wanted the second.
I thought about the way Wendell had listened when I talked about Dwight.
He had never asked me to make my memories smaller.
He had not acted as though my grief made me less available for a new relationship.
He had allowed me to be a woman with a past.
I wanted to believe he could allow himself to be a man with a past, too.
Perhaps that was part of what made his silence so confusing.
He had given me room to be honest about my life.
I wanted him to feel he could do the same.
But giving him room did not mean I could tell his story for him.
I couldn't decide that his silence came from fear.
I couldn't decide it came from embarrassment.
I couldn't decide that the photographs represented something wonderful or something painful.
Those were possibilities, not facts.
The truth would have to come from him.
I wanted to hear it without the burden of all the stories I had invented around it.
That meant I had to let go of some of my guesses.
I had to admit that I did not know.
And I had to be willing to remain present while I learned.
I found that thought surprisingly comforting.
Not knowing was uncomfortable.
But not knowing did not mean I was powerless.
I could ask.
I could listen.
I could tell Wendell what I needed.
I could decide what his answers meant for me.
Those were things within my reach.
I didn't need to control every part of the future.
I needed to participate honestly in the part we were building together.
When I thought about Christmas Eve, I tried to keep that in mind.
The date was important to Wendell for a reason I still did not understand.
The words were important to me for a reason I could explain.
They had made me feel remembered.
They had made me feel wanted.
They had also made me realize how much I wanted to be part of his life.
I could be grateful for that feeling without turning it into a guarantee.
I could be hopeful without pretending the unanswered questions had disappeared.
And I could allow the day to be meaningful without demanding that it solve every uncertainty between us.
Maybe that was what growing older had taught me.
Not that I should expect less from life.
Not that I should stop wanting love.
But that I could hold hope more carefully.
I could let it encourage me without letting it make decisions for me.
I could appreciate a kind gesture and still ask what it meant.
I could believe someone cared about me and still need to understand how that care would show up in our lives.
That was not distrust.
It was honesty.
I wanted Wendell to understand that.
I wanted him to know that I wasn't asking for a perfect man or a perfect house.
I was asking for a relationship in which I did not have to stand outside a closed door and wonder whether I was welcome.
I had spent enough time wondering.
The next step was not to wonder harder.
It was to listen.
And if the answer was difficult, I would face that difficulty as it came.
I had survived grief.
I had learned how to live through days I once thought I could not bear.
I had learned that sorrow and happiness could occupy the same heart.
I could face a conversation with Wendell, even if it changed what I believed about our relationship.
I hoped it would bring us closer.
But I no longer needed to pretend that hope was the same as certainty.
The yellow paper had given me a reason to look forward.
Now I needed Wendell to help me understand what we were looking forward to.
That was all I wanted from him.
A chance to hear the truth.
A chance to answer honestly.
A chance for both of us to decide what came next.
Click here to continue reading: PART 20: I Had Come to Christmas Eve Hoping the Yellow Paper Would Finally Make Sense, but What Mattered Most Was Whether We Could Be Honest With Each Other
I Thought the Hardest Thing About Losing My Husband Was Learning to Sleep Alone Until Another Man Made Me Question Everything
Part 19 of 20
