“We put you in Room Seven. It has the best morning light.”
“My reservation was for a standard room,” I said.
“It still is,” Nora replied, eyes twinkling. “The morning light is free.”
Room Seven was at the end of the second-floor hallway. It had a quilted bed, a writing desk, a small balcony facing the sea, and a vase of evergreen branches on the windowsill. The wallpaper was faded blue, patterned with tiny white flowers. A ceramic lamp glowed beside the bed.
I set my suitcase down and stood in the middle of the room, waiting for the nervous feeling to catch up.
Still nothing.
Only the sea outside, breathing in and out.
Then my phone buzzed again.
I took it from my purse.
There were twelve missed calls. Four from Becca. Three from Garrett. Two from my daughter-in-law, Mara. Three from numbers I recognized as the older grandchildren using their parents’ phones.
The latest text was from Becca.
Mom, where are you?
Another followed seconds later.
We’re at your house. The door is locked. Did you run to the store?
I sat on the edge of the bed.
For a long moment, my thumb hovered over the screen. I pictured them standing on my porch with overnight bags, stuffed animals, booster seats, holiday pajamas, and the easy confidence of people who believed the world would rearrange itself for them.
My heart squeezed.
Not because I regretted leaving.
Because I loved them.
That was the complicated part no one admitted about boundaries. They were not built from anger alone. Sometimes they had to be built while love stood on the other side, calling your name.
I typed slowly.
I am safe. I made other plans this Christmas. The house is closed. Please take the children with you and enjoy the holiday together.
Before I could second-guess myself, I pressed send.
The three dots appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally, Becca’s reply came.
Other plans? What does that mean?
I turned the phone face down.
Downstairs, a bell chimed. Voices rose in the lobby, cheerful and unfamiliar. Somewhere, someone laughed. My own children were probably angry now, confused, inconvenienced. They might even be hurt.
I wished they had considered whether I had been hurt too.
I unpacked my suitcase carefully. Three sweaters. One wool skirt. Pajamas. A paperback mystery novel I had been meaning to read since October. My mother’s pearl earrings. The red scarf Arthur bought me our last Christmas together.