I sat there across the table from my daughter-in-law and didn’t say anything for a while.
Then I asked her the question I’d been wondering about for four months.
“Why, Pam? Why put me by the kitchen? On Megan’s day?”
She was quiet for so long I didn’t think she’d answer.
“Because for eight years,” she finally said, “you got to be her mother. And I didn’t. Because of what I did. Because I was too sick to take care of my own little girl.”
Tears started running down her face.
“Every time Megan says ‘Grandma June taught me’ or ‘Grandma June always said,’ it’s like a knife. It’s every Christmas morning I missed. Every bedtime story. Every first day of school.” She wiped her eyes. “And on her wedding day, I just wanted one day where I was the most important one. Where she was mine.”
“She was always yours, Pam,” I said. “Even those eight years. Every night when I tucked her in, she said her prayers for you. Every single night. ‘God bless Mommy and help her get better.’ Eight years.”
Pam put her face in her hands.
“I never knew that,” she whispered.
“I never told you,” I said. “Maybe I should have.”
We sat there in my little kitchen for a long time. The clock on the wall ticked. A car went by outside.
Finally, I picked up the cashier’s check. I looked at it.
Then I handed it back across the table.
“I want you to do something else with this,” I said.
Pam looked up at me.
“Megan and Josh are trying to save up for a down payment on a house in Greenwood,” I said. “They’re about six thousand short. Megan told me last week. She’s too proud to ask anybody.”
I pushed the envelope into Pam’s hands.
“You give it to her,” I said. “From her mother. Not from me. Let it be from you.”
Pam stared at me.
“June,” she said. “Why would you do that? After everything?”
“Because I didn’t spend eight years raising that girl so the two of us could keep fighting over her,” I said. “She’s got enough love for both of us. She always did.”
Pam started crying again. Harder this time.
Then she stood up, came around my kitchen table, and hugged me.
It was the first time Pam ever hugged me in twenty-eight years.
Megan and Josh closed on their house in Greenwood the week before Christmas.
A little three-bedroom ranch on a cul-de-sac. With a big backyard and a swing set the old owners left behind.
Pam gave them the $6,000 for the down payment at Thanksgiving dinner. In front of everybody. Megan cried so hard she had to leave the table.
I didn’t say a word. I just passed the mashed potatoes.
That Christmas, Megan hosted dinner at her new house for the very first time.
I drove over on Christmas Day with a pecan pie in a box on the passenger seat of my Buick. Pam brought her green bean casserole. Greg brought a ham. Josh’s parents brought rolls and wine.
When I walked into Megan’s little dining room, I saw she’d set the table herself. Mismatched plates. Paper napkins folded into little triangles. A centerpiece made out of pinecones from the backyard.
And at every place, a little name card.
Not in gold calligraphy. Just in Megan’s own handwriting, with a black Sharpie, on folded index cards.
I walked around the table looking for mine.
Josh. Megan. Mom. Dad. Josh’s parents.
At the head of the table, at the seat closest to the Christmas tree, there was a card propped against the water glass.
“Grandma June.”
And underneath it, in smaller letters:
“Table 1. Always.”
I stood there holding that little index card for a long time.
Pam came up beside me. She looked down at the card in my hand.
Then she reached over and gently squeezed my arm.
“She’s right, June,” Pam said quietly. “Table 1. Always.”
I sat down at the head of my granddaughter’s table.
And when Megan came out of the kitchen carrying the ham on a platter, she set the very first plate in front of me.
Full. Steaming. With a dinner roll on the side.
She leaned down and kissed the top of my head.
“Merry Christmas, Grandma,” she said. “Nobody in this family eats by the kitchen anymore.”
THE END..!
