A Handful of Blackcurrants: New Year’s Alone

“You don’t have to wait up, Mom. I’ll be fine.”

My daughter Emily’s words echoed in my mind as I stood by the frosted kitchen window, watching her taillights disappear into the darkness. It was New Year’s Eve, and for the first time in two decades, I was truly alone. The silence in the house pressed down on me. I stared at the bowl of blackcurrants on the counter—leftovers from the pie I’d baked, hoping she’d want a slice before heading out. I wiped my hands on a dish towel, the smell of yeast and flour still clinging to my fingers.

The TV in the living room blared the sounds of the Times Square crowd, the energy of a city I hadn’t visited in years. I remembered the years when Ark, my late husband, would shout over the noise, “Emily, come on, let’s see the ball drop!” We’d all squeeze onto the sagging couch, plates of food balanced on our knees, and laugh at the absurdity of celebrating midnight in a time zone three hours ahead of ours in Oregon. Now the only sound was the radiator hissing in the corner. I turned the volume down, but the quiet was worse.

I turned off the TV and wandered into the kitchen. The pierogis I’d made sat untouched on the stove, and the salad—too much for one—was already wilting. I wrapped them up, placing them in the fridge with a sigh. I kept thinking: how did I get here? Emily used to beg me to let her stay up for New Year’s, and now she was old enough to drive herself away.

I poured myself a glass of wine, but it tasted flat. I stared at the glass, thinking of Ark’s easy laugh, the way he’d always find something to toast to, even in the rough years after he lost his job at the mill. I could almost see him leaning against the counter, his rough hands cracking walnuts for the salad, telling me stories about his childhood. “You know, I never had a real New Year’s until I met you,” he’d say. I missed him. I missed the feeling of being seen.

My phone buzzed. A text from Emily. “We’re here. Happy New Year, Mom. Love you!” I typed back, “Love you too. Have fun. Be safe.” My chest tightened with something between pride and regret. She was growing up. She didn’t need me the same way anymore.

I walked to the hallway and paused in front of Emily’s door. It was ajar, a tangle of blankets and clothes on the bed, a half-packed duffel bag on the floor. I remembered cleaning that room for her when she was small, tucking her in with her favorite bear, reading the same book three times because she couldn’t sleep. The ache of missing her was sharp, but it was more than that. It was the ache of time moving too fast, of things unsaid, of chances not taken.

My phone buzzed again. This time, a call from my sister, Karen. “Hey, how are you holding up?”

“You know, the usual. Just me and the cat.”

She laughed. “Come on, Anna, you could’ve come over. Jim made his famous chili.”

“I didn’t want to be a burden. Besides, I thought Emily might stay home.”

“She’s seventeen, Anna. She’s supposed to be out with friends.”

“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t make it easier.”

Karen’s voice softened. “It’ll get better.”

I wanted to believe her, but the words felt hollow. “Thanks. I’m fine, really.”

After we hung up, I wandered to the backyard. The air was cold and sharp, the kind that steals your breath. I pulled my coat tighter, walking the perimeter of the fence. I remembered the summer Ark planted the blackcurrant bush, swearing it would never take. “Too dry out here,” he’d said. But every June, we’d have a handful of tart berries, enough for a pie or two. Emily used to help me pick them, staining her fingers purple and giggling. Now the bush was overgrown, the branches heavy with fruit I couldn’t bring myself to pick last summer.

I knelt by the bush, brushing snow from the lowest branches. The berries were shriveled, but I plucked a few anyway, holding them in my palm. I pressed one to my lips—it was bitter, but it tasted like memory. Tears pricked my eyes, and for a moment, I let myself cry. Not just for Ark, or for Emily’s absence, but for myself. For the woman who didn’t know what came next.

Inside, the clock ticked past eleven. I made tea and sat by the window, watching fireworks bloom over a neighbor’s house. They were small, amateur, probably bought from the stand by the Safeway. I sipped my tea, thinking about the years I’d spent making sure everyone else was happy, comfortable, fed. It was what mothers did—what wives did. But who was I now, without them to care for?

I thought of calling Emily, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. Instead, I wrote her a letter. I told her about the blackcurrant bush, about how she used to help me pick them, how the kitchen would fill with the scent of sugar and fruit. I told her I was proud of her, that I missed her, that it was okay for things to change. I folded the letter and slipped it into her room, on top of the duffel bag.

Midnight came and went. The world felt both impossibly large and heartbreakingly small. I went to bed, the house creaking around me, the cat curled at my feet. I dreamed of Ark, of laughter and music, of Emily’s small hand in mine.

When I woke, the sun was bright and cold. Emily’s car wasn’t in the driveway yet, but I knew she’d come home. I got up, made coffee, and stood by the window, watching the blackcurrant bush gleam in the morning light. I wasn’t sure what this year would bring, but I promised myself I’d try to find something sweet, even in the bitter.

Do we ever really stop being needed, or do we just have to find new ways to matter? How do you let go, without losing yourself?