I know that Michael’s letter may be the beginning of something real or it may be the last move in a long pattern of taking what he needs from me when he needs it and disappearing otherwise. I genuinely don’t know which it is. I am holding that uncertainty without trying to resolve it prematurely, because resolution in the wrong direction costs more than waiting.
I know that the women I meet through the fund, the ones who come in with their careful dignity and their complicated histories and their quiet astonishment at being seen, are teaching me something I couldn’t have found any other way. That the love you give without witness, without acknowledgment, without the possibility of reciprocation, is not wasted. It becomes something else.
It becomes capacity. The capacity to recognize need in others and respond to it without requiring anything in return. I did that for Michael for thirty years, and it was real, even if he couldn’t receive it cleanly.
I am doing it now for strangers, and it is also real, and it costs me nothing because I finally have enough to give from. My garden has flowers in it now. The fruit trees are recovering from years of neglect, the way things that have been left alone too long sometimes do when someone finally pays attention.
The watercolor class has moved on to landscapes, which I find difficult and absorbing and exactly the right kind of problem to have. On Thursday mornings I have coffee with Linda, and we talk for hours about everything and nothing, and I drive home afterward in the small car I bought myself feeling the particular lightness of a person who has been well-accompanied. This is not a story about triumph.
It is not a story about a mother who was wronged and then vindicated. It is a story about a woman who spent most of her life looking in one direction and then, late, turned around. What I found when I turned around was not emptiness.
It was a life that had been waiting, patiently, in all the space I’d never allowed myself to occupy. I’m occupying it now. That is enough.
That is, as it turns out, more than enough.
