November 22nd

There are weeks when I wonder how I’ve avoided the mental hospital.

The doorbell rang as I shoved Jamie’s school shirts into the washing machine. There is nothing quite like the aroma of teenage laundry so I was happy to answer the door. A young man stood there with a large bouquet of pink and yellow daisies in his arms.  “Trish McTurner?” he asked.

Why can nobody say Cal’s surname?

“Yes.” I lied.

I signed his handheld device and closed the door. Cal was a nut. We were broke and here he was sending me flowers. I wouldn’t be sending them back though.

Then I checked the little envelope the florist had tucked into...

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