It was Frank’s handwriting.
“How did you do this?” I whispered.
It was Frank’s handwriting.
***
Five days earlier, I stood over an open suitcase while my daughter, Mikayla, folded sweaters beside me.
Daniel, my son, blocked the bedroom doorway.
“You don’t have to prove anything by taking this cruise.”
I tucked Frank’s navy shirt beneath my dresses.
“I’m not proving anything.”
“You’ve barely left the house since Dad died.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I bought groceries yesterday.”
“You bought milk and came straight home.”
“I still left the house.”
Mikayla smiled, but Daniel didn’t.
“You shouldn’t cross an ocean alone.”
“I won’t be alone. The ship holds thousands of people.”
Mikayla smiled, but Daniel didn’t.
“You know what I mean, Mom!”
“Yes, and you think grief made me helpless.”
His arms dropped.
“I think you’re hurting.”
“So, am I supposed to stay here until that stops?”
“No, but you could wait.”
“You know what I mean, Mom!”
I pulled the suitcase zipper halfway closed.
“Wait for what?”
“Until traveling feels less… final.”
That word caught me.
***
Frank and I had spent 32 years waiting for our Mediterranean cruise.
“Wait for what?”
Every anniversary, we put another hundred dollars into an old blue cookie tin marked “Our Big Adventure.
Then life reached in.
The furnace broke.
Daniel needed tuition.
My mother needed care.
Frank needed heart surgery.
Each time, he’d tape the loose lid shut and say, “We’ll go next year.”
Nine months before our departure, doctors found pancreatic cancer.
Frank died 11 weeks later.
My husband had been dead for three months.
Then life reached in.
***
Daniel stepped toward the bed.
“Cancel the tickets. Keep the money for an emergency. Listen to me, Mom.”
