Chapter 7: New Year's Eve, and What Almost Didn't Happen
Evan didn't trust it.
He didn't say that directly.
He said, "That's a good sign," when I told him about the visit, and he said, "She meant well with the photograph," when I showed it to him.
But later that night, after Lily was down, he sat across from me at the kitchen table and asked very carefully:
"How do you feel about it?"
"I feel cautiously open," I said.
"Okay." He turned his coffee mug in a slow circle.
"Can I say something without you thinking I'm trying to pull you in a direction?"
"Yes."
"She's done this before.
The tears, the gesture, the apology.
And then three months later you're back in the same place, just more confused because now you have evidence that she's capable of being different."
He wasn't wrong.
I knew he wasn't wrong.
"I know," I said.
"But this felt different."
"Different how?"
I thought about it.
"She asked me what it would look like if she'd actually stopped.
She didn't just apologize and expect me to absorb it.
She asked me to tell her what I needed."
Evan nodded slowly.
"That is different."
"It doesn't mean she'll do it," I said.
"But it's the first time she's ever asked."
He reached across the table and put his hand over mine.
"Then I hope she does it," he said.
"I really do.
Because you deserve a mother who shows up right.
And Lily deserves a grandmother."
I squeezed his hand.
"We have New Year's at Mark and Jenna's," I said.
"Carol will be there."
"I know."
"If it goes badly—"
"Then we leave," he said simply.
"Same as Christmas.
Except this time you've already said what you needed to say.
This time we're not hoping.
We're watching."
That was the difference, I realized.
I had spent thirty-two years hoping.
I was done hoping.
Now I was watching.
New Year's Eve at Mark and Jenna's was smaller than Christmas — just family, no extended relatives, no long table, no performance requirement.
Jenna had made soup and cornbread and put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator for midnight.
The kids were running through the house in paper crowns.
The television was on some countdown channel in the background.
Carol arrived twenty minutes after us.
She came through the door and I watched her see Lily first.
She crossed the room without stopping to make conversation, crouched down to Lily's level on the play mat, and said simply:
"Hello, beautiful girl."
Lily studied her.
Reached out.
Grabbed Carol's finger.
Carol's breath caught.
She didn't say a word about Lily's size.
She didn't comment on what she was wearing or whether she looked tired or whether her development seemed on track.
She sat on the floor beside the play mat and let Lily grab her finger and pull it toward her mouth, and she laughed, and it was real.
I watched from across the room.
Jenna appeared at my shoulder.
"I see it," Jenna said quietly.
"Yeah."
"Still watching?"
"Still watching," I said.
Around nine, Carol and I ended up in the kitchen at the same time, both reaching for the same tray of glasses.
We looked at each other.
"How are you?" she asked.
Just that.
No subtext.
No measuring look.
"I'm good," I said.
"Lily slept five hours last night."
Carol's face opened up.
"Oh, that's wonderful.
That must have been—"
"It was extraordinary," I said.
"I woke up in a panic because it was too quiet."
She laughed.
A real one.
Not the careful, composed laugh she used at events.
The one that came with a hand briefly covering her mouth.
"I did the same thing with Mark," she said.
"The first night he slept through I called the pediatrician at six in the morning convinced something was wrong."
"What did they say?"
"She said, and I quote, 'Mrs.
Henderson, please go back to sleep.'"
I laughed too.
It surprised me, the ease of it.
We stood in Jenna's kitchen with our glasses and said nothing for a moment.
"I've been thinking about what you said," Carol said.
"About what it looks like when I've actually stopped."
"And?"
"I'm going to see someone.
A therapist.
I made the call yesterday." She looked at the glass in her hand.
"I've been told to do it before.
I never took it seriously.
I think it's time I did."
I didn't say anything right away.
"Okay," I said finally.
"I'm not telling you for credit," she said.
"I'm telling you because you deserve to know I'm trying to understand why I do what I do.
Not just promising to be better."
Midnight came with noise and paper horns and Jenna's kids shrieking through the hallway.
Evan found me in the living room and kissed me.
Lily, asleep in the back bedroom, slept through all of it.
Carol was the last to leave.
She stopped at the door and looked at me.
"Happy New Year," she said.
"Happy New Year," I said.
She nodded once, pulled her coat closed, and walked out to her car.
I stood in the doorway and watched her taillights disappear down the street.
Evan came up behind me and put his arms around me.
"Well?" he said.
"I don't know yet," I said.
"Ask me in six months."
May you like
"Fair enough," he said.
He pulled me back inside, and I let the door close behind us.
