Could you maybe cook something for us?
I made oatmeal with mashed apples and dropped it off every evening. Left it in the fridge, never stepped inside.
They said they needed space.
I nodded.
I’ve lived with those nods for so long.
I can’t remember the last time someone asked me if I wanted anything.
I think I was programmed to stay just on the edge as long as I didn’t take up too much room.
That afternoon, I walked to Paige and Pine the bookstore, hoping to find something to gift Becca.
She once wrote me a little card when she was six.
Grandma, don’t forget the peppermint candy. I love it.
I kept that card in my wallet for nearly 2 years now.
I’m not sure she even remembers what peppermint smells like.
The shop was quiet, that mix of pinewood and fresh paper in the air.
There was a tiny bell hanging on the window, the kind of sound that makes you feel like nothing in the world needs to hurry.
Evelyn, the owner, still wore that oversized scarf. Her eyes squinted into a smile when she saw me.
“Looking for a gift for your grandkids again, Miss Mary Beth?”
I nodded, then stopped.
“No, not today.”
I hadn’t picked anything yet.
I stood quietly for a while, scanning the children’s section. Hardcover books lined up—reindeer, Santa, gingerbread men—all in neat rows.
There was one I used to read to Travis nearly 40 years ago, the night before Christmas.
I don’t remember much of the story, just that he used to yawn when I got to the flying reindeer part.
He liked real things.
I, on the other hand, wanted to hold on to whatever magic winter had left.
Evelyn handed me a cup of tea, tilted her head.
“You know, we’re looking for a storyteller on Saturday mornings. The kids come in pajamas, sit under the tree. It’s a joy.”
I smiled faintly.
“You think I could be a storyteller?”
“You’re the most natural one. I know,” she said without missing a beat. “The way you speak, slow and soft, makes people want to listen.”
I didn’t answer.
Just reached for a book with a deep blue cover.
Reading stories to children.
That’s something I used to do every night all those early years of being a mother.
But no one ever asked me to do it outside of family.
I sat down on the cushioned bench by the window.
Outside, snow had begun to fall again. Light, soft, silent.
Inside the sound of pages turning and a faint chime became a gentle backdrop, and I realized there is a world where I don’t have to earn my place with gifts, silence or sacrifice.
It’s just I’d never dared to step into it.
When I left the shop, I carried nothing.
Evelyn handed me a card with the storytelling schedule. I slipped it into my coat pocket.
No promises, no refusals.
I walked home.
The wind had turned colder than it was that morning.
The apartment was dark, no one waiting.
On the table, last year’s gift box still sat untouched.
I opened my notebook.
The page was blank.
No appointments, no shopping list like all the years before.
I looked at my fingers lined with soft creases. No longer quick, but steady enough to write one thing, just one line, in neat, deliberate strokes.
This year, I’ll try bringing nothing and see who still invites me.