My giving tree is nearly bare. A couple of good, windy days took care of the straggling leaves, hanging on for dear life to the branches. All over the community, people have put out yard and leaf bags with their compost bins and paper recycling because today was an approved leaf and yard waste pick up day. I didn’t have any to put out because I haven’t raked a single leaf. I like the way they look, scattered across the back yard under the tree that has given without taking for over five years now. I don’t care if they rot and turn to mush under the snow and I don’t care if they look and feel disgusting come Spring, either. Because in April (or May, depending on the kind of season we have), I will remember how beautiful those very leaves looked, laying under my giving tree. I will remember how important it was for me to look out at the tree and remember all that it has given.

Because I remember so clearly looking out across the yard and focusing on the giving tree, confused by an Indian Summer last year. I remember standing at the edge of the breezeway, completely overwhelmed and confused and hurt, and staring at that tree as though it was going to say something to me. The words, “brain trauma” and “Cerebral Palsy” and “uncertain” and “mobility” and “physiotherapy” and “worrisome”, among others, hurtling through my brain and crushing my heart.

Over one full year ago, I stared at that tree and tried to block the memory of my own mother laughing at my tears and my worry and dismissing not only my feelings, but my new knowledge with a wave of her hand and a smirk across her tight face.

Over one full year ago, I stared at that tree and tried to understand why I felt so alone when clearly I was surrounded by people with only our best intentions at heart.

Over one full year ago, I stared at that tree and tried to figure out why I felt so lonely when I was “happily” married. I stared at that tree and told myself over and over again that he was a good father. He loved his son. He was doing his best.

And I tried to suffocate the anger that bubbled up from deep inside because his best wasn’t good enough. And I was the only one there to pick up the slack.

It was over one full year ago that I asked that tree (for me, a physical embodiment of the Universe at work) for who I have now, without realizing it.

And as I gazed upon that tree this morning, it’s branches nearly barren, a carpet of it’s leaves resting peacefully below it, I thought of all that has happened in the thirteen months since I begged it for someone who “got it”.

And I wished that I could somehow make the people who either don’t (or just plain refuse to) understand feel what I felt and witness what has progressed since that fateful afternoon.

I phoned Don yesterday afternoon when I returned from the grocery store. I didn’t stop working as he spoke. I filled the fridge and freezer with the cold things first. And then I worked at cupboards and pantry. I made a mental note to myself to buy some more lunch things on Tuesday, when I’m out and about anyway and made another mental note to myself to hold onto the last twenty dollars I have stashed under some boxers so that I can afford to replace what the kids have munched on in between lunches.

He told me that his visit to his mother’s house had, in one way, gone better than he had thought it would. He was as honest as he’s ever been with her. He shared with her what his life had been like a year ago, before he and I were he and I. He told her that I make him happy. He told her that he’s moving, no matter what anyone thinks. He told her it hurts him when they refuse to speak to me, acknowledge me or even look at me. He told her it hurts him when they don’t ask about me or even inquire about his most recent trip to Canada. He was honest. And forthright. And he didn’t forget anything. He did good.

As I washed up the romaine lettuce and proceeded to get ready to spin it dry, I realized I hadn’t even taken off my shoes. The evening was full to the brim and the day was nowhere near being finished, yet. Dinner to be made and eaten. Emma’s lunch needed to be packed for the next day. Dishes and clean up would follow dinner, as would cleaning off the baby who I have decided will be called “little beasty” after being inspired by Stiva’s gopher.

And then I had to bring wood for the fire inside from the garage. And I had to take out the huge, green compost bin and rest it at the end of the driveway. And then would come the two recycling bins, full of sorted paper and cardboard and a misplaced Timmie’s cup from my dad. They go in the compost. Not the recycling. It’s surprising, I know.

And then, just in case all of that wasn’t enough, I had promised the girls we would do our Halloween decorating after dinner. An adventure in and of itself even before you add in a very crabby baby who missed his afternoon nap.

While I worked, I listened to the rest of Don’s story of the visit to his mother’s.

I won’t lie and say that I didn’t, at first, feel a sense of déjà vu. I had been through this once before with Rock’s family and wasn’t too interested in doing it all over again. I also won’t lie and say that I didn’t feel angry and disappointed and eve a little bit hurt, which led me to feel embarrassed because up until that moment, I didn’t think that Don’s family had the capacity to hurt me.

Some things will never change, and for the next while, this is one of those things.

So I will just share with you what I learned:

It * is * personal. It’s not just the situation, which is what I thought it was up until now. I have said or done something to make them dislike me so badly. I will not have an opportunity to clarify or explain. The damage is done. They don’t like * me * and it’s not looking like they will any time soon.

They are not willing to budge. Not willing to grow or change for the greater good. Just as my own mother would rather have absolutely NO contact with my younger sister rather than admitting some fault and trying to learn how to move forward in active change, Don’s mother won’t have it any way other than her way. She would rather lose everything than compromise or make a change.

I was proud of Don for being honest. For not giving in and for not selling himself short. For not forgetting any of the bits and pieces. And for not getting angry or defensive.

He chose me. Chooses me. And that’s never happened before. So I didn’t see it coming and, embarrassingly, didn’t know what to do with it. It took me a minute. Okay, longer than that…

We are going it alone. With his friend, Davey and my sister, Judy, cheering from the sidelines.

And I just remembered that when I asked that giving tree for what I now have, I didn’t mention anything about support.

So I guess we really do get what we ask for.