“The mausoleum in Pala was in the path of a wildfire.”

“I had no idea the fires were that bad,” she responds.

There’s not a day that the news doesn’t pick up a story about the spread of this one, the lack of containment on that one, and so on and so forth. Personally, I had determined that when the fires start to rip across Ventura Boulevard and encroach on my morning commute to the office, that’d be the point I’d start paying attention. But clearly it’s too late for that.

“Yeah, and so they returned all the ashes they had there to the next of kin.”

“Are you sure they can even do that?”

“I don’t know. I never saw a contract or anything. But it’s a privately owned ‘boutique mausoleum.’ Do any rules really even pertain to them?”

“I can’t believe it. They were right in the path of the fires and didn’t have a backup plan? What’s the matter with those people?”

“Dummkopfs,” I say.

“So, what are you supposed to do now?”

That’s the million-dollar question. In the background, I hear the ice maker on my mom’s fridge grinding, as well as cubes bouncing off the bottom of an empty glass. My guess is that she’s making herself a midday martini. This woman wastes no time imbibing under stress. I flash back to night one with Decker’s urn, chugging a bottle of wine in the kitchen, and realize I am my mother’s daughter in that sense.

“Well, did you tell Debbie?” she continues after a hard swallow of her fresh drink.

“Yes, of course.” Although that meeting was stressful, it feels remarkably freeing to be able to say that I did it.

“And what happened? Did she force you to hand over his ashes so she could turn them into a clay mask because some beauty blogger says that’s the key to looking youthful?”

It’s a sharp-tongued statement from my mom, but she, of all people, knows full well how skewed Mrs. Austin’s worldview is and how it has proved to be more than a little frustrating to our family over the years.

“No clay mask, but you’re right. She did demand possession of the urn. She even showed up back at my apartment while I wasn’t home, trying to fetch it for herself.”

“Of course she did.”

“But I told her I’m hanging on to it.”

“Of course you are.”

“And I’ve been bringing him with me everywhere I go now so she can’t try to steal him back.”

“Oh. Okay. Well, then.” She pumps the brakes. “Always good to protect yourself, right?”

I can tell she thinks I may be taking it one step too far, toting him around with me in my bag like he’s a phone charger. But—

“I’m just trying to do the right thing by Decker while avoiding Power Struggle Part II with Debbie. That’s all,” I say.

“Honey, there is no need to explain yourself to me. You are doing the right thing. Take as much time as you need. And I know it’s hard for you, but make sure you ask for help when you need it,” my mom insists.