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CHAPTER42
MEG
Igrab another stack of my mother’s clothes and carry them across the hall to the guest bedroom in my dad’s house. We’re moving my mother out, making room for Anna Mae. It’s the literalreplacementthat I’ve been talking about for the last three months since my dad met her. And I have to learn to be okay with it. The wedding is tomorrow—the first weekend in December—and although it’s hard for me, I’m trying to work through it.
I’m slowly accepting the change.
“Look at this skirt,” Tessa says, holding up a knee length pencil skirt of my mom’s. “I think I could wear this as a dress.”
“Nope,” I say, snatching the skirt from her hands. “We’re not taking mom’s clothes and turning them into nightclub attire.”
“What are we going to do with them, then?” Brooke asks, carrying a box of shirts into the room.
I pick up a striped sweater and bring it to my nose, hoping to smell her perfume. “We could have them made into a quilt. One for each of us four kids and one for dad.”
“She certainly has enough stuff for five quilts,” Tessa says.
Brooke smiles. “I love that idea.”
“What idea?” My dad enters the room with another large box, but this one is full of books and keepsakes. He sets it on the floor and looks up at us expectantly.
“We’re going to make quilts out of mom’s clothes.”
“That sounds perfect.”
“But what about her shoes?” My dad waves us to follow him. “Are you sure none of you guys fit in her shoes?”
“We’re different sizes,” Brooke says, trailing behind him. “But they might work for Tessa.”
Tessa rushes out the door. “I am not wearing Mom’s shoes to work. They don’t scream corporate dominance.”
I sit on the corner of the bed, looking around the guest room. It’s odd how an entire life can be boxed up in a matter of an hour or two. My eyes glance to the top of the bin that my dad carried in, to a notebook that saysMy Journal. I sink to my knees, slowly swiping my fingers over the dusty cover.
You should never read someone’s journal.
It’s the number one rule in life, but does that rule apply to dead people?
I’m going to say no, but just in case I’m wrong, I look behind me to make sure I’m alone. I open up the front cover and see the scribbles of my mom’s cursive. I flip through the pages, stopping to read passages.
I think I’m going through a new phase in my life. It seems as though I am “mourning the passing of my youth.” Young motherhood is gone with the joys of new babies and little ones. How difficult it is to let go of, even though you know that other new and rich experiences lie ahead. I’m getting so old—but there are a lot of joys. As you get older and nearer to the end of your life, you seem to appreciate it more, and you want to savor each day.
My mother was so wise, so eloquent with her words. No wonder I took everything she said to heart. She’s my role model, my rock, my compass. If she were here, would she tell me to push my fears aside with Tyler and be happy with him?
I flip through more pages, reading her thoughts. I like this glimpse inside her mind. I get to the last page and see a single sentence.
The words are nothing new. I’ve seen them before. But seeing them in my mom’s handwriting makes me feel like this sentence was written for me—the answer to all of my questions—as if she knew somehow I would find it when I needed it most.
“Comparison is the thief of joy.” —Theodore Roosevelt
Joy.
I don’t even know what that is anymore.
I had joy when I was with Tyler, and now it’s gone.
Teddy knows what he’s talking about, because comparing myself to Kristen or comparing Anna Mae to my own mother has robbed me of the relationships that give me the most happiness in my life.
It’s not a competition between my mother and Anna Mae, or even me and Kristen.
