PART 3: Blue Shutters
I made him coffee. For a few minutes he asked practical questions about the trip. Then he glanced at the suitcase again. “Mom, I know Cassie shouldn’t have said what she said.” I waited. “But I still think this is a pretty big reaction.”
I folded a sweater carefully. “Do you really think I booked eight weeks in Portugal just to get even with your wife?” He shifted in his chair. “I don’t know what to think.”
“Then listen to me.” I sat down across from him. “For years, I’ve arranged my days around what you and Cassandra needed. I did it because I love you. But somewhere along the way, you both started assuming my time belonged to you.”
He looked down. “I never meant for you to feel that way.” “I believe you. But not meaning to do something doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.”
He rubbed his hands together. “I guess I just thought you liked helping.” “I do like helping. I don’t like being taken for granted.”
We went over the recurring charges. Derek admitted he had stopped thinking of some of them as help at all. “They’ve just been part of our budget,” he said. “I know,” I said. “That’s why we need to change it.” He didn’t try to talk me out of anything after that. Before he left, he carried my suitcase down the stairs so I wouldn’t have to lift it. At the door, he hugged me longer than usual. “Have a good trip, Mom.” “Thank you, sweetheart.”
After his car pulled away, I sat on my front steps. I was sad about the strain between us, but relieved we had finally spoken honestly. He hadn’t suddenly understood everything. But he had listened long enough to admit the payments had become routine, and that meant more than another private promise to smooth things over.
Joanna drove me to the airport. We stopped for breakfast, and she insisted on paying. “Consider it a retirement celebration,” she said. She asked what I would paint first. “Probably something easy. A window or a doorway.” She smiled. “Mom, you used to draw houses on my lunch bags when I was little. You were always good at it.” I had forgotten those sketches. Leonard used to tease me for decorating the bags so carefully that the sandwiches got squashed.
At the gate, Joanna held me tight. “Take pictures of everything,” she said. “Even the boring things.” Then she added, “Especially the things nobody else thinks are important.” Her words stayed with me all the way across the Atlantic. For years I had photographed family milestones and remembered everyone else’s favorite things. Now she was telling me to notice whatever caught my own eye.
By the time I reached Óbidos, I was so tired I couldn’t remember where I’d put my reading glasses. Inês, the rental manager, met me near the town gate and helped me roll my luggage down a narrow cobblestone street. The house looked exactly like the photos: whitewashed walls, blue shutters, terracotta pots around a little courtyard, and a wooden kitchen table by the window. Beams crossed the low living-room ceiling, and the bedroom looked out over rooftops glowing orange in the late afternoon. It was modest, not luxurious, and absolutely wonderful.
Inês showed me how the heating worked, told me where to buy groceries, and pointed out a bakery just outside the old walls. Before leaving, she asked if I needed anything else. Out of habit, I almost said no. Instead, I admitted I was nervous about staying alone. She smiled. “New places feel strange at first. Tomorrow, go outside and have coffee. It will start feeling smaller.”
That night, I ate bread, cheese, and fruit at the kitchen table. Outside I could hear footsteps and the faint rattle of a suitcase on cobblestones. For the first time in decades, tomorrow had no list of obligations waiting for me. The uncertainty felt both strange and delightful.
The next morning, I went to the bakery Inês had recommended and ordered coffee and a pastel de nata, the custard tart I’d read so much about. The woman behind the counter helped me pronounce “obrigada” correctly. I sat by the window and watched bundled-up people carry their shopping and stop to greet friends.
Nobody there knew I was Derek’s mother. Nobody expected a casserole or help with the dishes. I was just an American in a Portuguese bakery, eating pastry while my coffee cooled. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed that anonymity. There was something healing about a morning where my presence required nothing more than choosing a seat and ordering breakfast.
I took my first week slowly. I photographed tiled doorways, wandered narrow lanes, browsed little shops, and read in the courtyard when the sun was out. On rainy days, I made soup, listened to the rain tapping the shutters, and painted the view from my window. My first watercolor looked like someone had dropped a blue towel into a bowl of soup. I laughed until I had to sit down. It was nothing like the neat scene I’d hoped for, but I loved trying, and that was exactly what I had come to Portugal to find again. Nobody saw the disaster, and nobody expected me to fix it for them.
A week before Christmas, Derek emailed about the expenses. He had moved the subscriptions into his name and arranged to pay for the storage unit. He also wrote, “I didn’t realize how many things you were still paying for.” I read that line twice. I believed him. My quiet help had made it easy for him not to notice. I thanked him, asked about him and the kids, closed the laptop, and went for a walk.
Christmas Eve was cold and drizzly. That morning I strolled through town admiring the decorations and picking out small gifts to bring home. In the afternoon, Cassandra texted. “We’re doing a smaller dinner tomorrow. I ordered the turkey from a local place. It’s not the same as yours.” I smiled. Another message followed: “I probably shouldn’t have said what I said at Thanksgiving. I was trying to be funny.” It wasn’t a full apology, but it was more than she had ever offered. I wrote back, “I appreciate you reaching out. What you said hurt me because cooking is something I do for people I love, not all that I am.” After a while, she replied, “I understand.” I wasn’t sure she did yet, but I hoped she would.
On Christmas morning, Joanna video-called in her pajamas, coffee in hand, her tree twinkling behind her. “Show me your decorations,” she demanded. I turned the camera to the small wreath Inês had hung on the door and the candle on my table. “Very European. Very sophisticated,” she laughed. She asked about dinner, and I told her I’d reserved a table at a little restaurant and would order whatever I felt like. “No turkey?” “Not unless somebody else cooks it.” We both laughed. That afternoon, Derek called with the children. The grandkids chattered about their presents and asked whether reindeer lived in Portugal. Cassandra appeared briefly behind them. “Merry Christmas, Diane.” “Merry Christmas, Cassandra.” It was awkward, but gentle. Neither of us pretended Thanksgiving hadn’t happened, and neither of us turned the moment into a fight.
Afterward, church bells rang beyond the stone walls as I sat by the window. I missed our old traditions: kids tearing into presents, cinnamon rolls in the oven, Leonard dozing in his chair before we had even picked up the wrapping paper. Missing them didn’t mean I had chosen wrong. I was spending a holiday without managing everyone else’s happiness, and it was an unexpected gift to myself.
January went by faster than December. I joined a small watercolor class where the instructor taught us to paint shadows on white buildings. There were six of us, including a retired English couple and a Canadian woman who had been traveling for almost a year. Nobody asked whether I could cook. They asked about my travels, my favorite books, and why I wanted to paint. I found myself sharing memories I had set aside for years: Leonard, raising Derek and Joanna, the dental practice, patients whose names I still remembered. My life was so much bigger than the errands I had run for others.
Near the end of January, my phone rang while I was working on a painting. It was Derek, and for once he didn’t open with a favor. His voice was low and careful, the voice of someone who had rehearsed what he was about to say. “Mom,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about Thanksgiving.” I set down my paintbrush and held my breath.
