Florence Tate sat on her back patio with a tall glass of sweet tea, watching the butterflies dancing over the tops of her rosebushes. Her phone was sitting on the little glass coffee table in front of her and she knew the next call she needed to make was to her son. She was starting to regret telling Rachel that she was going to reach out to him because that wasnt a burden Rachel needed to deal with. Lord knew the girl had worked hard enough to free herself from the grief of an absent fatheran absent father that had been a wretched human being when he had been present.

Then again, Florence didnt really have too much time to worry about every word she spoke. Not anymore, anyway. She felt perfectly fine, but the doctors had told her that was to be expected. Apparently, when it came, it would come quick. When? No one knew, exactly but she wasnt making any long-term plans, that was for sure.

She was a bit rattled by how hard it was to pick up the stupid phone and call him, though. It hadnt been that long since theyd last spoken. She knew why she was hesitating, though. She knew there was a very large part of her that feared he just would not care. Hed tell her he was sorry but that would be about it. And did she really want to face that?

Her worries and thoughts were interrupted by the faint squealing of brakes. It was just after two in the afternoon and the sound of those brakes was all too familiar. It was the mailman, coming in that beat-up little white truck that needed more than just new brakes, but a paint job as well.

She got up from her chair, leaving her cellphone. Maybe the mere act of walking around the house to the mailbox would help her find the courage she needed to call her son. She walked down the patio stairs and headed around the side of the yard. Passing by the small pear tree in her side yard, she saw that the hummingbird feeder needed to be refilled. She made a note of this as she came to the front yard, just in time to see the mail truck make the very short jaunt between her house and her neighbors.

She walked across the yard and came to her mailboxyet another thing that could use a paintjob. She reached inside and grabbed the days mail, walking down her sidewalk to the front door just like she did every day after the mail was delivered. And, like always, she thumbed through it all on her way to the front door.