Then she said, « I have to tell you something. That’s why I asked Gwen to find you. »
« Okay. »
« You were the first person to see me. To really see me. »
While everyone else cared about being popular, beautiful, or whatever, you just cared about being authentic. I have never forgotten it.
I shook his hand. « Patty, I didn’t… »
« I never thanked you. »
She swallowed.
« I don’t have much, but what I have, I want it to matter. I bequeath everything to a scholarship fund for children who feel different, who need to be noticed. »
She smiles. « I’m going to give it our name. »
« The Dorothy and Patricia Fund. »
I started crying. I couldn’t help it. « Don’t cry. »
That’s a good thing. It’s a beautiful thing.
She died three days later. I was there when it happened, I was holding her hand, I was telling her that she mattered, that we had seen her.
At the commemorative ceremony, there were about twenty people, most of them former students. Each one told how Patty had changed her life, how she had seen it when no one else had.
After driving home, I thought about Jessica — that she would never see me the way Patty had seen me. Like Emily had seen me. And I realized that it suited me.
Some people are part of your life through blood. Others by choice. The ones that choose you are the ones that really matter.
I’m 70 now. 71 years old in a few months. My house is small, but it’s mine.
My garden is flourishing. Emily comes every Tuesday. It has become a tradition.
Sunday dinners. Just the two of us. Sometimes her boyfriend joins us.
Last week, she brought a friend who had just lost her grandmother. We made lasagna, told stories, laughed until we cried. Jessica hasn’t called in four months.
Part of me wonders if she ever will. Another part doesn’t care. What I learned: you can’t force people to see you.
Only you can decide who has access to you. And sometimes, the bravest thing is to get away from those who have never been there. Last week, I received a letter from Jessica.
Not an email. Not a text message. A real letter.
I held it for a long time before opening it. Inside:
Mom, I know I did something stupid. I know apologies aren’t enough, but I’m trying to figure out why you don’t forgive me.
The children ask about you. I tell them you’re busy, but I think you’ve actually decided that we don’t deserve your time. It hurts more than you can imagine.
I read it twice. Then I folded it and put it away in a drawer. Maybe one day I’ll answer.
Maybe not. So, what did I do? I called Emily and asked if she wanted to take a trip, maybe to Oregon, to see the mountains that Patty loved.
She said yes before I had even finished my question. We’re leaving next week. And if you’re reading this – if you’ve ever been forgotten in an airport, or anywhere else, if you’ve ever put hope in a suitcase only to see it get lost along the way – listen.
You don’t need permission to like yourself. You don’t need an invitation to celebrate your own life. You can treat yourself to your own cake.
You can wear your best dress to yourself. You can choose who sees you and who doesn’t. I’m 70 years old and I’m just starting to learn it.
But it’s never too late. Nor for me. Nor for you.
Your seat at the table is yours. Don’t let anyone take it away from you. And if they try, leave.
There are other tables, better ones, with people who will reserve a seat for you without you having to.
Have you ever made the effort to be there for someone, only to realize you weren’t planned? What limit allowed you to preserve your self-respect without losing your heart?
See more on the next page
Advertisement
