Colin called me the following evening, just as I was finishing dinner.
I had made soup from the vegetables left in the refrigerator and toasted a slice of bread.
It was a simple meal, the kind Diane used to make when neither of us wanted to spend much time in the kitchen.
I was carrying my bowl to the sink when the phone rang.
"Hi, Dad."
"Hello, son."
"We talked to Vanessa's family."
I put the bowl down.
"How did it go?"
He let out a long breath.
"Not great at first."
I leaned against the counter.
"What happened?"
"Her mother was upset. She said everyone had already been looking forward to Christmas at your house."
"I understand that."
"She asked why we couldn't just make it work."
I waited for him to continue.
"Vanessa told her that thirty-one people wouldn't fit comfortably here, and that we hadn't really thought through the cost."
That was more than I had expected Vanessa to say.
"How did her mother take that?"
"She didn't like it."
"That's her right."
"I know."
There was something different in Colin's voice.
He sounded disappointed, but he did not sound as though he expected me to rescue him from the disappointment.
"What did you decide?" I asked.
"We're going to look at the community room tomorrow. Her parents offered to help with the cost if we can get it."
"That sounds reasonable."
"If we can't get it, we'll have a smaller gathering here."
"That sounds reasonable too."
He laughed quietly.
"You make it sound easy."
"Making a decision can be simple. Making everybody happy about it is something else."
"That's what I'm learning."
I returned to the kitchen table.
The wooden star was still sitting beside the box of ornaments.
I had been meaning to put it away, but I liked seeing it there.
"How is Vanessa doing?" I asked.
"She's embarrassed. I think she feels like she promised something she couldn't deliver."
"That happens."
"She's worried her relatives will think she can't organize anything."
I considered that.
Vanessa liked to have things arranged.
She liked to know what time people would arrive, what would be served, and where everyone would sit.
There was nothing wrong with that.
The problem was that she had treated my home and my money as parts of her plan before asking whether I agreed.
"She can still organize something," I said. "It just needs to be something everyone has agreed to."
"I told her that."
"Good."
Colin was quiet for a moment.
"She also asked me whether I thought you'd been unhappy with us for years."
I looked toward the window.
The backyard was dark now, and the bare maple branches were barely visible against the sky.
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I didn't think you were unhappy with us. I thought you'd been trying to help us and hadn't said when it became too much."
I sat back.
"That's a fair answer."
"I also told her I should have been paying more attention."
I felt a small weight lift from my chest.
Not because Colin had taken my side.
Because he was beginning to see that there was more than one person responsible for the way things had developed.
"Your mother used to tell me that silence doesn't always mean agreement," I said.
"I remember."
"Do you?"
He chuckled.
"Not when I was a teenager."
"Neither did I."
We both laughed.
Then he grew serious again.
"Dad, I want to ask you something."
"Go ahead."
"If we end up having the smaller gathering here, will you still be comfortable with that?"
"Yes."
"Even if we can't invite everybody?"
"Yes, Colin."
"I don't want you to feel that we're making you choose between us and your own family."
I looked at Margaret's name on the notepad.
"You don't need to make that choice for me. I can invite my sister, and you can invite the people who matter to you. We just need to be realistic about the space and the cost."
He seemed to take that in.
"All right."
"And if we decide to meet somewhere else, I won't be offended."
"Really?"
"Really."
He paused.
"I think I needed to hear that."
I did not ask him to explain.
Sometimes people needed room to arrive at a thought without having it examined from every side.
We talked briefly about the children.
The older one wanted to know whether the tree would be decorated before Christmas Eve.
The younger one had apparently been asking about the wooden star.
"I told them Grandpa was getting everything ready," Colin said.
I glanced at the star.
"Tell them Grandpa is waiting for the right helpers."
"They'll like that."
After we hung up, I rinsed my bowl and wiped the counter.
Then I sat in the living room with the lamp beside Diane's old chair turned on.
For years, I had treated family disappointment as a problem I needed to solve.
If Colin was worried, I offered money.
If Vanessa was stressed, I offered to take the children.
If a holiday plan became complicated, I paid for whatever would make it easier.
I had told myself those things were acts of love.
Many of them had been.
But I had also been trying to prevent the discomfort that came when people had to face the limits of their own decisions.
That was not something I could keep doing.
The next morning, Colin sent me a photograph of the community room.
It was a plain room with a polished floor, a small kitchen, and a row of folding tables.
There were windows along one wall.
The chairs were not particularly attractive.
But there was enough room for the number of people Vanessa had invited.
His message read:
We can reserve this for Christmas afternoon. Her parents are going to help with the rental. We would handle the food together.*
I studied the photograph.
It was not the Christmas gathering I had imagined.
It was also not my responsibility to make every part of it perfect.
I replied:
Looks like it could work. I'm glad you found an option.*
He sent back a thumbs-up.
I put the phone down and went outside to collect the mail.
The air was cold enough to make my fingers ache.
There were two bills, a grocery advertisement, and a card from a neighbor.
Nothing important.
When I came back inside, I placed the mail beside the telephone.
Then I called Margaret.
"Have you made your Christmas plans?" I asked.
"Not yet. Why?"
"Would you like to come to my house for Christmas dinner?"
She was quiet for a moment.
"I thought you might be having that big gathering."
"We're still working out the details, but it looks as if the large group will meet somewhere else."
"And you want me there?"
"I do."
"Then I'll come."
Her answer was so simple that I felt ashamed of how long I had left the invitation unsaid.
"We'll keep it easy," I told her. "Nothing elaborate."
"Good. I don't need elaborate."
"Neither do I."
We talked about what she might bring.
She offered to make the green beans Diane used to prepare every Christmas.
I accepted.
When I hung up, I wrote her name beneath the guest list on my notepad.
Then I crossed out the number thirty-one.
I did not know yet how many people would sit at my table.
But I knew that I no longer wanted to measure the success of Christmas by how many people I could accommodate.
I wanted to measure it by whether I could sit down with the people I loved and enjoy being there.
That seemed like a much better place to begin.
*END PART 13**
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: The Children Arrived to Decorate the Tree, and Their Questions Reminded Me What I Had Almost Lost
I Had Spent Years Calling It Family Help, Until One Christmas Request Made Me Question Who Really Owned My Home
Part 13 of 20
