‘Not for me, thanks,’ Mimi said with a smile. For Mimi, Dry January had turned into Feb Fast. By March she finally felt comfortable enough to enjoy the odd glass of wine with dinner, but she was being careful not to fall back on old habits and use alcohol as a way to escape from life. And when she was driving, she stuck to a zero limit.

She glanced over at the video of Scorpio that Tara was showing Darren and felt pleased that her face was glowing with pride. Mimi had come up with the idea of a pet rabbit as a way to help take some of Tara’s focus away from the twins. She wanted her to enjoy Elliot and James as their big sister and nothing more.

She’d also picked up on some nerves from Tara when it came to car trips. Especially if she was separated from Pete or Mimi. Mimi had been working hard to ease her back into the idea of riding in a car without her parents so that she wouldn’t be afraid if the parent of a school friend needed to give her a lift to a band event or a playdate. It was a slow process, but they were getting there.

Mimi’s attention was pulled away as she saw Jill walking through the tables towards them. Jill caught her eye and Mimi tipped her head slightly to the side and then managed to smile at her. New beginnings, she thought. It was time to put the past behind them.

*

Jill

Dear Frank,

I know I haven’t written to you for a while. I guess after the funeral, I wasn’t sure what I should say. I wasn’t sure if writing these letters was doing me more harm than good. But tonight I felt compelled to talk to you.

You see, tonight, something happened. I think our family finally started to piece itself back together. And I could have cried with happiness.

We all went out to dinner together — Christmas in July, we called it. And we talked, about everything. You, for instance. About how much we all still miss you and about how incredible your book is. It hit the shelves last month. There was a slight delay from the original publishing date; a bit of chaos when the publishers found out Tony wasn’t the author. In the end though, they still wanted to publish it.

And we found more of your writing, you cheeky thing. Why did you keep it all hidden? Why didn’t you tell any of us that it was your true passion? Why didn’t you tell me? I still can’t believe you were writing in secret. Don’t you see that we could have shared in it together? Your talent, your achievement. We could have celebrated it.

But I still love you anyway, you old fool.