“I think I’m not ready.”
“Of course.”
She handed me a brochure.
“Keep it anyway.”
I tucked it into my handbag.
Two days later, Daniel called again.
This time, I answered.
“Mom.”
His relief was immediate.
“Where have you been? We were worried.”
“I’m fine.”
“Did you get my email?”
“I did.”
A pause.
“Are you angry?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About Thanksgiving?”
“About the last four years.”
Silence came through the phone.
In the distance, I heard children laughing and waves breaking.
“Mom, Hawaii was Rebecca’s idea. We found a last-minute package and—”
“You don’t need to blame your wife.”
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
Another pause.
Then Daniel lowered his voice.
“We honestly thought the flight would be hard on you.”
“Did you ask me?”
“No.”
“Did you think about asking me?”
He didn’t answer.
I looked around the apartment.
My boxes were still stacked against the wall.
“Daniel, the problem isn’t Hawaii.”
“Then what is?”
“You stopped seeing me as a person who makes choices.”
“That’s not fair.”
“It may not feel fair.”
“You live with us because we care about you.”
“I moved in because you asked me to.”
