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Everything fell apart. I still wasn’t sure how I was supposed to be reacting, but I was getting through each day. One day at a time.
Mom said that was the best I could hope for.
Now, I looked around my house and bit my lip. The gang—and Mom—were coming for Thanksgiving. They should start arriving soon. Thankfully, Mom was bringing the turkey. Since I was hosting, it was technically supposed to be my job to make it, but I was banking on the fact that arranging for it would count. Bonus? This was homemade, not from a grocery store.
I strode into the kitchen and stepped out onto the deck. I’d told Mom to come around the back and park under the deck. There was no point in her fighting for street parking and then trying to lug a twenty-pound turkey down to the front door.
A flash of sun bouncing off glass caught my eye and I turned. Mom’s car crawled down the alleyway between the town homes. I waved at her, pointed down, and then hurried back inside. I went down to the garage and hit the button to open the door. I was walking out as Mom navigated under the deck and stopped her car.
She cut the engine and pushed open her door, a wide grin on her face. “Happy Thanksgiving! I’m so glad you invited me. This is much better than the other offers I had.”
“You had other offers?” I tugged the handle on the side door so it would slide open. You had to love a minivan with the fancy doors. I couldn’t quite believe Mom was content to drive the kidmobile so long after I was gone and on my own, but she kept telling me it worked, so it was silly to change to something new. Maybe now that more in her life was changing, she’d be willing to take another stab at a new car.
“Of course I did. I have friends.” She pointed to the pot holders on the seat. “Make sure you use those, it’s hot. Can I go in and turn on the oven? I’d like to keep it in there so it stays warm.”
“Sure. Of course.” I knew Mom had friends. She and Dad had always been out on Fridays and Saturdays with other couples from church or Dad’s office. They’d had a rich social life. It was part of those relationship goals—I’d never considered them “just parents.” They’d always been a couple in their own right. I sighed and put on the glove style oven mitts before picking up the covered roasting pan. I bumped the door-close button with one fingertip as I maneuvered the giant dish out of the van and headed inside.
By the time I got upstairs and into the kitchen, the aroma of the turkey had my mouth watering. “This smells amazing.”
“Thanks, honey. I do love cooking a Thanksgiving turkey.” She pulled open the oven door. “Just slide it on in, okay?”
“Can do.” And I did.
When I’d stepped clear, Mom shut the oven door.
I pulled off the oven mitts and tossed them on the counter. “So. Who were your other options?”
“Oh, well, let’s see. The pastor invited me to join them. The Murphys are in town this year and they said they’d love to have me. Mrs. Harder—do you remember her? Her grandson Gavin married that nice girl who had a baby when she was a teenager. She was hoping I’d join her and the other older ladies who were gathering at her place.”
I laughed. “I don’t know how you’d choose if I hadn’t invited you.”
“You’re right. It was a good reason to give everyone so no one thought I was sulking at home. Your father—” Her gaze cut over to mine and she lifted an eyebrow. “It’s okay if I talk about him, right?”
I considered saying no. I didn’t actually want to hear it. But maybe it would help Mom somehow. “I guess.”
She patted my hand. “He left several messages trying to figure out where I was going. I think he might have had a few invitations himself.”
I bristled. “Why would anyone invite him?”
Mom sighed. “You need to forgive your father.”
“Have you?”
Her lips twitched. “Let’s just say I’m working on it.”
“How, Mom?” I crossed my arms. “I just don’t understand how to start.”
“The very first thing you need to do is remember how much Jesus forgave you.”
I shrunk a little at her pointed look. I might be willing to say that, in the grand scheme of things, I lived a pretty good life. I tried to be good. To do good. But I also understood that no amount of good behavior could erase the stain of sin in God’s eyes. That needed Jesus’s blood. His sacrifice for me on the cross. It was only because Jesus died and was raised that I was able to be forgiven and appear “good” in God’s eyes.
“So. In light of that, I have to forgive. Right now? I’m still basically telling God—and myself—that I forgive your father. And then asking for Him to help me forgive and let go. I don’t have to do it every five minutes anymore though, so I’m calling it progress.”
I pushed off the counter, crossed to my mom, and pulled her into a hug. “That’s great progress. And I think I can do that. I don’t really want to forgive Dad, but I do understand that I need to.”
Mom’s arms tightened around me. “I’m not going to push you to do anything more than that. Yet. It’s a good start. And today, of all days, we have a lot to be thankful for.”
I stepped back. “I guess we do.”
