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And some hard truths made a lot of sense when viewed from the safety of a well-loved life.
“Of course, Mum.”
“Good. OK. Take care, sweetheart.”
“You too, Mum.”
“I love you,” she said, and I blinked.
“I love you, too,” I said and hung up.
“Hey,” Michael said as he stomped his boots on the mat just inside the door.
“Hey, yourself. Where have you been?”
“I’ve been doing secret things,” he said.
“Were they good secret things?” I asked, smiling.
“The best,” he said and pulled out a brown wrapped packet from inside his coat pocket.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” he said.
“Open it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“It’s addressed to you.”
“To me?”
“Is there another Kylee Connor out there?”
“I hope not,” I said and he laughed.
He sat himself down beside me and placed an arm behind my shoulders, gathering me against his side and snuggling. The brown wrapped packet was placed on my lap carefully as if made of glass and something precious.
“It’s from the publisher,” I said.
“Yes,” he whispered. “Open it.”
“I’m not sure I can,” I muttered.
“Babe,” he said. “I’m right here. We can do it together.”
“OK. I’d like that.”
“Ready?”
We looked at each other, and then opened the packet together.
A paperback book tumbled out. A lone girl stood in a sparse forest, an umbrella over her head. She faded into the background as if she was disappearing; not really there.
“‘The Girl Who Cared Too Much,’” Michael read, and I stopped counting. “By Kylee Connor.”
