“Dad?” I asked.

“The one and only. We were dating by the time I finished school, and I was looking for a job. Then your grandfather died suddenly, and your dad needed help.” She shook her head. “I told him I’d help out with counseling the families until he hired someone else.”

“He never hired someone else?”

“I’m still waiting,” she said with a laugh. “After a few weeks I knew I wanted to work there full-time. I also knew I wanted to say yes when your father asked me to be in his life full-time too.”

I blinked up at Mom as the meaning of her words sank in. “Wait,” I said finally. “Please don’t tell me that he proposed to you in the funeral home!”

“No, he did not!” She was smiling at Dad, even though he couldn’t see her. “I’m not sure I would have said yes if he had. He proposed in a fancy restaurant on the anniversary of our first date. Very romantic and appropriate.”

“Oh good,” I said, relieved that Dad hadn’t done anything creepy. “Are you ever mad that you didn’t end up becoming a therapist like you’d planned?”

Mom shrugged. “There’s a lot of overlap between what I do now and what I thought I’d do. I always wanted to help people through counseling. I actually love that part of the job—I find it’s the most rewarding.”

I looked sideways at her. “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

“You are a very intuitive girl,” she said, giving me a boop on the nose. “Overall I’m very happy and fulfilled by what I do. But the truth is, I don’t always love the hours. Being on call all the time has its challenges—making plans, breaking plans.”

“Yeah, like going to the movies!”

“Yes, I do know how hard it is for you kids as well.” She gave me a sad smile.

I thought about how much she and Dad did for the funeral home. And for us. It made me feel a little guilty for grumbling.

“Still thinking you want to be a funeral director?” Mom asked a few steps later.

“I think so,” I said, nodding. “I know it’s a really important job. I want to do something that helps people.”

Mom put her arm around me and pulled me in close. “I know you do. And I already know you’ll be great at it. I can tell by how much you’re doing to help Oren.”

She was right—I did want to help him. But what she didn’t know was that my desire to learn all about the funeral business hadn’t started because I wanted to help Oren.

It had started when I was trying to figure out a way to help me.

Eighteen

I woke up early on Monday morning without even setting an alarm. I hurried to shower and eat breakfast, and then I brought my giant case of quilling supplies down to the dining room.

Today I was going to teach Oren how to quill, which, hopefully, would also be art therapy. Maybe if it made him feel good enough, he’d start to talk again. Yes, I know I was supposed to give him time, but quilling is seriously so relaxing that I was sure it would work. I was excited for my own projects again too. I’d never really thought of my artwork as meaningful, but since Oren had told me he kept the little paper flowers I’d made with him all the time—even under his pillow when he slept—I felt inspired to make something that was not just pretty but also, maybe, important too.