PART 6

THE WOMAN WHO HAD EVERYTHING

After dinner, everybody gathered around the fireplace.

The grandchildren opened their presents.

Ernestine fell asleep in her chair.

Garland stayed for about an hour before leaving.

At the door, he turned toward me.

“Della?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think you could ever forgive me?”

I looked at him.

“I already have.”

He seemed surprised.

“Really?”

“Yes. But forgiveness doesn’t mean I want the life we once had.”

He nodded.

“I understand.”

I smiled.

“I hope you have a peaceful life, Garland.”

“And you, Della.”

He walked down the front steps.

David closed the door.

I watched the headlights disappear down the road.

Then I turned around.

My grandchildren were laughing.

My children were cleaning up the dishes.

Ernestine was snoring.

The Christmas tree lights reflected against the windows.

And I suddenly remembered that invitation.

Come see what a real family looks like.

I smiled to myself.

Bonnie had meant those words as an insult.

But she had accidentally given me the most wonderful gift.

She had reminded me to bring the people who made my life worth living.

I walked to the fireplace and adjusted the little silver school-bus ornament.

Then I counted the stockings.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

Ten.

Eleven.

Twelve.

All twelve were there.

I stood quietly for a moment.

Forty-two years earlier, a man had walked away from me because he believed I couldn’t give him a family.

But he had been wrong about something far more important than my ability to have children.

He had believed that a family was something you received.

I learned that a family was something you built.

It was the little boy who stopped sleeping with his shoes on because he finally knew he was safe.

It was the girl who learned to trust again.

It was the son who called every Sunday.

It was the grandchildren who filled my house with noise.

It was my sister who never let me eat Christmas dinner alone.

It was all the ordinary days when somebody needed a ride, a hug, a meal, or simply someone who would answer the telephone.

I had spent years believing I had lost the chance to become a mother.

But I hadn’t lost anything.

My family had simply arrived differently.

And when I finally turned off the living room lights, I whispered something to the quiet house.

“Thank you, Lord, for the family I was given.”

Because at sixty-five, I understood something I wished I had known at twenty-three:

A woman is not measured by the children she gives birth to, the man who chooses her, or the life other people think she should have.

She is measured by the love she gives, the lives she touches, and the home she builds.

Garland had three sons.

I had five children.

But that Christmas, I didn’t feel like I had won anything.

I felt grateful.

And that was a much better feeling.

The End.