The Christmas I Didn’t Cook
An original fictional story.
“Of course I do,” I said. “I’ll call you. I’ll send pictures. And when I come home, we can make plans together.”
Derek didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Eight weeks is a long time.”
“I’ve spent longer than that postponing things.”
He sighed.
“I didn’t realize you were unhappy.”
“I wanted to tell someone about New Zealand yesterday. I spent the afternoon cooking, and when I finally talked about something else, Cassandra made that remark.”
“She was joking.”
“I know you heard it.”
Another silence.
“I didn’t want to make dinner awkward,” he admitted.
“It was already awkward for me.”
This time, he didn’t explain her intentions.
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
I thanked him.
Then we talked about when I would leave.
Joanna called the following morning.
“Portugal? Really?”
“Really.”
“Send me the listing.”
A minute later, she laughed.
“Mom, there’s a lemon tree.”
“I noticed.”
She asked about the flight, the neighborhood, and whether I was nervous.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“About traveling?”
“About doing something people might be disappointed about.”
Joanna grew quiet.
Then she said, “I’ve probably counted on you being available more than I realized.”
We talked about that without trying to settle every old hurt.
Before hanging up, she asked whether I would send her a postcard.
There were practical things to arrange.
A neighbor agreed to check my house. I organized my medications, bought suitable insurance, and left my itinerary with both children.
I also reviewed the recurring expenses I had been covering for Derek’s household.
We agreed on a transition for the voluntary help I would end. I honored existing commitments and put the dates in writing.
He sounded uncomfortable discussing it.
So did I.
We finished the conversation anyway.
Cassandra messaged before I left.
Sorry if the joke upset you. You know we love your cooking.
I read it, then replied.
I enjoy cooking. I also want to enjoy visiting without being responsible for every meal.
She sent a heart.
I put my phone away and finished packing.
The house in Óbidos was smaller than the photographs had made it appear.
My suitcase barely passed the little table by the door. The courtyard was chilly, the kitchen had two burners, and I spent my first evening wondering why I had traveled so far to sit alone.
I missed Leonard.
That surprised me.
I had imagined the trip would make me feel adventurous. Instead, after unpacking, I wanted to tell him about the narrow street and the cupboard door that wouldn’t stay shut.
I cried while making tea.
The following morning, I went out.
I found a bakery, bought breakfast, and sat beside a window with my book.
Nobody needed me to clear the table.
I read forty pages.
Gradually, my days filled.
I walked. I visited places I had marked on a map. I found a small painting workshop where my first attempt at a doorway looked more like a leaning refrigerator.
The instructor studied it kindly.
“You’re rushing.”
I laughed.
Apparently, I could rush even when I had nowhere else to be.
The following week, I tried again.
I cooked sometimes, too. I enjoyed choosing what I wanted, making enough for myself, and leaving the pan until after dinner.
One wet afternoon, I baked a small apple cake.
The woman staying next door accepted a slice and stayed for coffee.
She asked what I had done before retiring.
For once, I answered without shortening the story because somebody needed something from the kitchen.
On Christmas, I spoke to my grandchildren by video.
They showed me presents and asked whether Portugal had Christmas trees.
I turned the phone toward the lights outside my window.
They wanted to see the courtyard next.
Neither seemed to believe I had stopped loving them.
Later, Derek called alone.
“We ordered most of dinner,” he said. “I handled the potatoes.”
“How were they?”
“Some were more cooked than others.”
I smiled.
Then he added, “I did the dishes.”
“Good.”
He hesitated.
“I don’t think I understood how much work we kept handing you.”
“Now you do.”
He asked what I had eaten.
Then he asked about my painting.
I told him about the doorway.
He laughed with me and stayed on the phone while I described the rest.
Eight weeks passed.
I had happy days and lonely ones. I learned which walks I liked, ruined several paintings, finished books, and discovered that an afternoon could pass pleasantly without producing anything useful.
When I returned to Raleigh, my house felt familiar and newly spacious.
I unpacked the next morning.
Then I found a local painting class and enrolled.
Derek invited me for a weekend in March.
“We’ll handle the food,” he said. “Does that weekend work for you?”
I checked my calendar.
“I have class Saturday morning. I could drive down afterward and stay overnight.”
“That works.”
Cassandra met me at the door.
This time, I was carrying an overnight bag and a book.
She offered to take the bag.
Before dinner, she asked whether we could speak.
“What I said at Thanksgiving was rude,” she told me. “And I kept assigning you work without asking.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
Dinner was simple. Derek cooked chicken. Cassandra made a salad. My grandchildren argued over who would sit beside me.
When I began describing Portugal, nobody interrupted to discuss Christmas menus.
Afterward, Derek loaded the dishwasher while I played cards with the children.
At home, I framed a photograph of the courtyard.
It showed my book on the table, a crooked painting drying against the wall, and the little apple cake beneath a clean towel.
I placed it where I would see it from my reading chair.
On Wednesday morning, I left for painting class.
The breakfast dishes were still in the sink.
6:32 PM
