“I want to cook.”
She paused.
“Your grandmother gave me that pecan pie recipe when Paul and I married. I love making it. I’m not going to stop doing things I love simply because nobody expects them anymore.”
“Okay.”
“Six o’clock.”
“We’ll come.”
After the call, Linda opened her computer.
There was already an email from Patricia.
The subject line said:
**Next one?**
Inside were three possibilities.
Portugal.
The Greek islands.
A train journey through Scotland.
Linda opened each link.
Read everything.
Then replied:
**Scotland. Spring. Let’s do it.**
Patricia answered within ten minutes.
**Booking now.**
Linda booked too.
Her hands didn’t shake this time.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
For years, she had waited for somebody to tell her it was acceptable to want more.
Nobody had.
Because nobody needed to.
She had always been allowed.
She simply hadn’t realized it.
Paul had spent thirty-five years telling her to take care of herself as carefully as she took care of everyone else.
It had taken losing him, eight years of loneliness, and one painful Christmas phone call before she finally listened.
Linda closed the laptop and walked back toward the tree.
The new ornaments sat among decades of older ones.
School crafts from grandchildren.
Ornaments bought with Paul.
Replacements for things broken over the years.
The little glass globe caught the Christmas lights.
It was fragile.
Linda had carried it across Europe in her hand luggage.
It had survived.
That thought stayed with her.
Fragile things could survive long journeys if someone carried them carefully.
For thirty-five years, Paul had carried her carefully.
Now she was learning to carry herself.
She was sixty-seven.
She had twelve days of Europe written inside a journal.
Four new ornaments.
A new friend named Patricia.
A son coming to dinner.
And Scotland waiting in spring.
She had everything she needed.
Most importantly, she had permission.
She had always had it.
She had simply needed to be excluded from Christmas before she finally discovered it.
