I moved out west 25 years ago. I moved for love. The better half and I are still together. I remember sharing the news with my Mom that we had decided that we would always spend our Christmases at our home, not traveling one year to one family and the next year at the other. It was time we started our own traditions. Mom understood as she had left her family to move away with her love. I know she didn’t like it, but she did understand.
When I got the call back in September that Dad’s cancer had returned and there was nothing that could be done, I knew I had to break tradition this year. He had about six months. It would be his last Christmas. He would most likely be very ill. In fact I knew that a trip at this time would probably be the last time I would see him. The better half and I agreed. Mom had never asked, I hadn’t mentioned what I was planning, I quietly booked the trip.
The next morning I texted my mother a link. A link to a video to break the news to her. Almost immediately my phone rang. She was in tears of joy. I would be home for probably the hardest Christmas of her life. Little did we know during that conversation of joy that a few days later he would be gone.
As this post hits the blog, I will be on my way. A long journey from west to east. I’ll be there for her, and her for me.