Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85484 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 427(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
“None of this is funny.”
“You’re right—it’s really not.” I gaze at the suitcase filled with my things for the trip. “I’m happy, Mom. I’m really, really happy.”
“How? How could you possibly be happy? Look at your life and then look at what it could be and explain to me how you could possibly be happy?”
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the ceiling. There’s really no point in trying to explain anything to this woman—especially happiness. Her definition of the word includes dollar signs, designer brand logos, and auspicious plaques she can hang on the wall in her corner office. My life will never make sense to her.
And I’m okay with that.
Still, there’s something inside me that wants her to understand. If she’d only listen to what I’m saying, she could get it. She’s logical and highly intelligent. This isn’t a complicated topic to grasp.
My phone buzzes with a text. I pull it away from my face to read it.
Jess: I’m dying over here. Can I come and get you now?
A slow smile spreads across my lips as a wash of warmth floods my veins.
“Philippa?” Mom asks.
Me: Please do. Xo
Jess: THANK GOD.
I chuckle and stand, pressing the speakerphone button again.
“I’m happy, Mom. I don’t know what else to say.” I toss the phone on the bed and organize my bathroom essentials into little spill-proof bags. “Every morning, I go to a job that I love, helping people navigate their relationships so they can be happy too. Then I come home to a place that’s peaceful. Sometimes my neighbor lady will come by with a piece of pie for me. She’ll ask me about my day and then tell me stories from when she was my age. And other times …”
My hand stills over my bags as I imagine Jess’s smile. The thought of him is like getting a hug. It gives me the confidence to keep talking.
“And other times my boyfriend will call me on his way home from work and tell me how lucky he is to get to spend time with me.” I laugh. Jess would love to hear me say that. “It’s a good life.”
“But you’ve done nothing with it, Philippa. You have nothing to show for it. Your father and I were talking with Greg last night, and we want to remind you that there’s still time to turn your ship around. Greg said he will—”
“I don’t want Greg’s help with anything. I’m surprised he even remembers who I am.”
She scoffs.
“Look,” I say, closing my suitcase. “I don’t have a doctorate on the wall, but I have pictures of Kerissa and me singing karaoke in a dive bar in Tampa. I don’t have fancy letters at the end of my name, but maybe someday I’ll have three in front of it because someone really loves me and wants me to have them. When I die someday, no one is going to talk about the lives I’ve saved like they will you and Dad and Greg. You are all incredible. But if someone stands over my casket and can tell a funny story about us or remember a time when I made them feel seen, or that I was a friend to them when no one else was—I’m better than good with that.”
Mom sighs, the tone filled with frustration.
“Thanks for calling.” I think. “But I made stuffed peppers for my neighbor to eat while I’m gone, and my ride will be here shortly. So I have to go.”
“Oh, Philippa … Fine. I give up, anyway.”
“Great. Talk soon.”
“Hmmm.”
The line clicks, and she’s gone. Not even a goodbye.
I blow out a breath, anger and frustration licking at old wounds. No, Mom, you “gave” up many years ago. Unlike a certain man who says he’s waited for me for fifteen years.
Thoughts of my family evaporate and are replaced by thoughts of Jess. He’ll be here soon. I better hurry.
I tug my suitcase off the bed and wheel it by the front door. Then I hurry to the kitchen and collect the containers I made for Honey before jetting over to her house.
The sun is scalding as I stand on the porch and knock on the door. I peer in the window and spot her waving me in.
“Look at you,” I say, stepping inside. “It’s nice to see you up and moving around.”
“I’m a bit slower than I’d like, but I’m getting there.”
I close the door behind me and follow Honey into her kitchen. “I’m going out of town for a few days and was planning on making stuffed peppers this week like we talked about the other day.”
She stops at her sink, her eyes lighting up.
“You have family to take care of you,” I say, “and you have food.”
“And I can use DoorDash,” she says, proud of her new skill.