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Back The Favorite Daughter Save as PDF
Chapters (57)
  1. Cover
  2. Back Cover Text
  3. Booklist
  4. Dedication
  5. Quote
  6. SUNDAY
  7. 1
  8. 2
  9. MONDAY
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. TUESDAY
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. 15
  24. WEDNESDAY
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. 27
  37. 28
  38. 29
  39. 30
  40. 31
  41. 32
  42. 33
  43. 34
  44. THURSDAY
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. 39
  50. 40
  51. 41
  52. 42
  53. EPILOGUE
  54. DEAR READER LETTER
  55. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  56. READERS GROUP DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  57. Best Day Ever

I unlock the gate to the courtyard, hurry to the front door and inside. When Cash was alive he’d greet me at the gate, tail wagging, searching behind me for Mary or Betsy. Instead there is only silence.

In the kitchen, I flip on the local news. Good background noise while I force myself to try to eat something. I glance at Cash’s empty bowl. For Betsy, I open the cabinet under the microwave and tuck it in beside my beach picnic plasticware. Another relic of happy times before: beach picnics with friends and the kids, sunsets enjoyed while sipping rosé and planning the future. S’mores made, laughter shared. Standing guard at the edge of the sea while the kids, skilled at swimming in the ocean but still your responsibility, frolic in the cold water. Standing at the edge of the sea, on kid duty, enjoying all the eyes staring at my perfect bikini body. Ah, the good old days.

I close the cabinet, forcing the end of the memories. I can always pull the bowl back out if I need to remind them of Cash, that he’s gone, too. That accidents happen. That life is short, that loyalty is rewarded.

I open the refrigerator and pull out a plastic tub of leftover salad. Something David brought home late, a few nights ago. I recognize the to-go box from one of his new favorite places. Always sniff before you take a big bite of something you didn’t cook. Contaminated food kills five thousand people each year in the US. Appetizing, right? I am hungry, though, so I decide to risk it.

I push on the corners of the tub and the seal breaks, launching the lid into the air like a rocket. It falls, landing on the kitchen floor with a clatter. Never have a stone floor in your kitchen. Everything breaks when it lands on it, no matter what. Sort of a given, just like when you fall two hundred feet from a cliff you die. When you fall two hundred feet from a cliff into the ocean you also die. The surface of water isn’t soft. It’s like hitting a brick wall, a stone floor.

I pick up the lid and dump the old salad into a bowl. I sit down at the beautifully decorated table and take a bite.

My mind taunts me. If you’ve fallen from a cliff and no one is there, do you make a sound?

7

4:45 p.m.