Confessions from the Quilting Circle by Maisey Yates (free ebook reader for iphone TXT) 📗

Avery Grant’s diary, to be given to her children, June 2021

Mary

It hadn’t taken long to track her down. Linda Meriwether-Johnstone. Mary’s half sister. They talked on the phone in the afternoon, and then later that day, had met in the coffee house. There was a lot of grief and hurt to untangle, but as far as the sisters went, there was nothing but a desire to build a bridge across a chasm made deep by generations of grief and separation.

They had talked about how Linda’s parents had always told her that George was her uncle. She knew his story, but had never realized he was her real father.

They had talked.

She had invited her to the quilting circle.

And now Mary was back home in her house, the place where she had raised her children. Where she had made her own life, one as separate from the grief of her childhood as possible. But of course, she had always carried it with her. Going through her mother’s diary was a study in reopening wounds. And then allowing them to heal in a way they never had before.

The last entry in the diary had been an extremely bitter pill. Because it had been about her mother’s life right before she decided to leave.

It was not about a sampler, about Mary’s inability to make beautiful things the way that Addie had done. Not about her being a frustrating child.

Not about her inability to needlepoint, or learn quickly enough.

It was not about Mary at all.

And of the many great things she had imagined that had driven her mother away, that it could possibly have been demons entirely contained within her, had never occurred to Mary.

She had read about women with postpartum depression, and that was what it sounded like. Well, depression. Maybe. This endless certainty that everyone was better off without her. That she was failing.

And the truth was, had her mother said any of that to her face, Mary wouldn’t have believed her. She would’ve thought she was deflecting, being dishonest. Trying to make herself sound like a victim.

But she couldn’t look at her mother’s full story and not... Believe.

I feel like a ghost. I walk through the rooms in the house and don’t touch anything or anyone. I can’t feel anyone touching me.

He’s a good man, but I can’t love him.

Not the way I loved George.

I look at my children and see how I failed her, and I know I’m failing them too.

How terrible for them, to have a mother like this. It would be better if I weren’t here. He could find a better wife.

They could have a better mother.

How well Mary knew the fear of falling short.

Because her mother’s wordless abandonment had transferred those feelings to her. And maybe sharing, maybe being honest would have changed things.

What if she’d said those things out loud, instead of just to her diary? What then?

What if she were brave?

Mary had thought that being steady and measured, that hiding her emotions, was being brave. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t hiding them in a journal and running away either. She wasn’t so different from her mother than she’d thought, though.

She had never bared her heart. She’d let her anger simmer over sometimes, but she hadn’t told her girls why certain things hurt, and in return they hadn’t been able to speak to her about their own pain.

In many ways, she had abandoned them.

It was such a difficult thing to realize that much of what she had lived for was in vain.

But not the love of her girls, never that.

She hadn’t been perfect.

She had made mistakes. She had stayed though. She had been there the best she knew how.

And her life wasn’t over.

She didn’t need to leave her husband to try and satisfy the ache in her. No, of course she didn’t. She had this life, this wonderful life. And she was just more free to live it now.

It was like an incredible burden had been rolled away from her shoulders, and she could... She could breathe.

She stood up, and set her mom’s diary down on the couch. She stroked the blue cover.

“I love you, Mom. And I forgive you.”

Blinking back tears she walked out of the house, down the little path that led to Joe’s shop.

Her husband of forty years was bent over his workbench, measuring something. A signpost, perhaps. It didn’t really matter. She crossed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around his broad back, resting her head between his shoulder blades. “I love you,” she said. “Our time together has been a gift.”

He straightened, turning around to look at her. “Are you leaving me?”

“No. Just making sure you know how... How happy I’ve been. And how thankful I am that you gave me the family that I always dreamed of. Joe, we’ve had a wonderful life. Not perfect. Better than perfect. Real. I’m sorry if there were times when my fear held me back.”

“Did things go well with your half sister?”

She nodded. “Yes. But... More importantly I just... I got some answers. To these questions that have hounded me all this time. It’s late but... But at least I did. I look at you, photography and camping and making furniture. You’re not slowing down. And I... I want to do all of these things with you. I want to do new things. I... I’m not scared of them now.”

“Even if you can’t do them perfectly right away?”

“Especially then.”

He leaned down and kissed her. “I’m glad to hear that. What do you think of doing that big Colorado hike. Staying in cabins on the trail.”

“Yes,” she said. “You can bring your camera. Maybe I’ll... Maybe I’ll bring some quilting. Or a good book.”

“Bring whatever you want. So long as you bring you.”

Hannah

Hannah looked at her violin, and she didn’t want to play. She was the only one who hadn’t participated in the family confessional. But she just didn’t... She didn’t see the