Chapter 67

“How’s your writing?” my mother asked.

“I haven’t written a word in six months.”

“Don’t waste your talent. Writing was always your therapy.”

“There are more important things right now than writing.”

“Dad would want you to continue with it. He knew how much your writing made you happy.”

“Where’s Dad?” I finally asked, changing the issue.

“At the crematory. I have to pick up his ashes tomorrow morning.”

“Philip and I will go.”

She stood and strolled over to me. “Thank you.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Go talk to him,” my mother said, noticing the grief on my face.

“He’s probably asleep.”

“May I give you some motherly advice?”

“When have I ever declined advice from you?” I asked. I bent my head at an angle to look up at her.

“Don’t let the small things come between you and Philip. Life’s too damn short.”

I nodded.

“Philip loves you a great deal,” she said.

“I say things that I don’t mean in the heat of the moment.”