PART 5
THE LAST CHRISTMAS STOCKING
Three months passed.
Life returned to its ordinary rhythm.
I planted tomatoes.
Ernestine complained about her knees.
David came over every Saturday to fix something I hadn’t asked him to fix.
Rebecca called every Wednesday.
Michael sent photographs of his children.
Samuel brought me a new television because he said mine was older than the grandchildren.
Thomas still forgot to call before visiting.
And I still counted the Christmas stockings.
But something had changed.
I no longer thought about 1984 every time somebody mentioned children.
I no longer wondered what my life might have been like if Garland had stayed.
I had stopped measuring my happiness against the life I never got to live.
Then, one afternoon in December, a letter arrived.
This time, it was from Garland himself.
His handwriting was shaky.
I opened it at the kitchen table.
Dear Della,
I have been thinking about what you said at my birthday.
You told me that an apology doesn’t give you back the years.
I’ve been trying to understand that.
For most of my life, I told myself I left because I wanted children. The truth is that I was frightened. I was ashamed of my own medical problems, and instead of facing them, I blamed you.
I made you carry a burden that was never yours.
I cannot undo what I did.
I also cannot ask you to make me feel better about it.
I only want you to know that you were never the woman I made you believe you were.
You were enough in 1984.
You were enough every year after that.
And you are enough now.
I hope your children know how lucky they are.
Garland.
I read the letter twice.
Then I folded it and put it in the drawer beside my mother’s old recipe cards.
I didn’t cry.
Not because it didn’t matter.
But because I had finally stopped needing those words.
Christmas Eve arrived.
My house was full.
The kitchen smelled like roasted turkey, sweet potatoes, and the pecan pie Ernestine insisted on making even though she always burned the edges.
David was outside with Michael, trying to untangle the Christmas lights.
Rebecca was arguing with her husband about how to arrange the dining chairs.
Samuel was teaching the grandchildren a card game.
Thomas had brought too much food, as usual.
I stood in the doorway and watched them.
Five children.
Six grandchildren.
Eleven people who had come into my life through different doors.
Eleven people who had made a home with me.
Then Evelyn came running toward me.
“Grandma!”
“Yes, baby?”
“Can we hang the stockings now?”
I smiled.
“Of course.”
We went into the living room.
There were twelve stockings hanging across the fireplace.
One for me.
Five for my children.
Six for the grandchildren.
I had counted them so many times over the years that I could have done it with my eyes closed.
Evelyn pointed to the biggest stocking.
“That’s yours, Grandma.”
“It is.”
“Why is yours bigger?”
“Because I’m the oldest.”
She giggled.
Then she asked a question.
“Grandma, did you always have us?”
I knelt beside her.
“No, sweetheart. I didn’t.”
“Then when did you get us?”
I looked toward the kitchen.
David was laughing.
Rebecca was singing.
Michael was helping the younger children.
Samuel was pretending he couldn’t understand the rules of his own card game.
Thomas was stealing pieces of turkey before dinner.
I smiled.
“One at a time, baby.”
She thought about that.
Then she hugged me.
“Well, I’m glad you got us.”
I held her tightly.
“So am I.”
At seven o’clock, the doorbell rang.
Ernestine looked at me.
“Are you expecting somebody?”
“No.”
David went to answer it.
A moment later, he returned.
“Mama, there’s somebody here for you.”
I walked toward the door.
Garland was standing outside.
He wore a brown coat and held a small wrapped box.
He looked nervous.
“Hello, Della.”
“Hello, Garland.”
He glanced past me.
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
I looked at the crowded living room.
“You are. But come in anyway. It’s cold.”
He stepped inside.
My children noticed him immediately.
David approached first.
“Hello, Mr. Hatchett.”
Garland shook his hand.
“David.”
Then Rebecca greeted him.
Michael offered him a chair.
Nobody was unkind.
Nobody was overly friendly either.
They simply treated him like a guest.
And that was exactly what he was.
He handed me the little box.
“Merry Christmas.”
I opened it.
Inside was a small silver ornament.
It was shaped like a school bus.
On the back, engraved in tiny letters, were the words:
To Della, who gave more children a home than I ever understood.
I looked at him.
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“I remembered you used to drive that old yellow bus.”
I smiled.
“Thirty-six years.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Some of the best years of my life.”
He looked around the room.
“Your family is beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
He stood quietly for a moment.
Then he asked whether he could say something.
I nodded.
He turned toward my children.
“I want to apologize to all of you.”
The room grew quiet.
“Your mother was a good woman long before I knew how to appreciate her. I treated her terribly. I blamed her for something that wasn’t her fault, and I walked away.”
He paused.
“She deserved better than me.”
David looked at him.
“Yes, she did.”
Garland nodded.
“I know.”
Then he turned toward me.
“I don’t expect to become part of your family, Della. I just wanted to say that I was wrong.”
I studied him.
He looked much smaller than the man who had walked out of my kitchen in 1984.
Not because he had lost weight.
But because I was no longer looking up at him.
I was standing on my own.
“Thank you for saying that, Garland.”
He nodded.
Then Evelyn appeared beside me.
“Grandma, is he staying for dinner?”
I looked at Garland.
He looked at me.
I thought about the past.
I thought about the future.
And I thought about the fact that forgiveness didn’t have to mean forgetting.
“Would you like some turkey?” I asked him.
His eyes filled.
“If that’s all right.”
“There’s plenty.”
David pulled out a chair.
Garland sat down at the far end of the table.
He wasn’t sitting in my husband’s chair.
He wasn’t sitting in a place that belonged to my past.
He was simply a guest at a Christmas dinner.
And that was enough.
