Chapter 15
Christmas came quietly.
We slept in separate rooms.
We bought gifts together for Lily.
Daniel chose Mom’s present himself.
He remembered Sarah liked peppermint bark.
He called his sister without prompting.
Nobody applauded.
Life simply became more balanced.
And I became lighter.
That was what Daniel noticed.
Not that I was happier because he was improving.
I was happier because I had stopped monitoring whether he improved.
I took a Saturday pottery class with Mom.
I went to dinner with Amy.
I read three novels in one month.
I bought yellow daffodils for the kitchen.
I signed up for beginner swing dancing.
When I told Daniel, he looked like someone had struck him.
“You’re taking dance lessons?”
“Tuesday nights.”
“With who?”
“Whoever gets assigned as a partner.”
“You asked me to do that.”
“For years.”
“I’d go now.”
I looked at him.
He meant it.
That almost made it sadder.
“I know.”
“Then why didn’t you ask?”
Because begging someone after they finally become willing does not erase the years they made you feel foolish for wanting the thing.
“I wanted to know what it felt like to go because I wanted to go,” I said.
Daniel nodded.
He did not argue.
My first class was terrible.
I stepped on a retired mail carrier named Ben twice.
I turned the wrong direction.
I nearly collided with a woman named Denise.
And I laughed more than I had laughed in months.
When I came home, Daniel was sitting on the couch.
“How was it?”
“Fun.”
“You’re smiling.”
I touched my face.
Apparently, I was.
He looked down.
That was the night I realized regret is sometimes watching someone become happy in the exact places where you once refused to meet them.
February arrived.
Then March.
One Sunday morning, I woke to the smell of coffee.
Daniel was downstairs.
On the counter sat a white bakery box.
My stomach tightened before I could stop it.
He looked up.
“I went to Baker Street.”
I opened the box.
Two blueberry muffins.
An almond croissant.
And a lemon scone.
I stared at it.
Daniel said, “You had one after Mom’s doctor appointment last month.”
I looked at him.
“You remembered.”
“Yes.”
The smallest thing.
The most devastating thing.
For years I had wanted him to notice me.
Now he was noticing.
And I no longer knew whether being seen late could make up for being unseen while I was still reaching.