With the window half-opened, I laid on Anika's couch with no intention to sleep anytime soon. It wasn't like I had magically regained my energy; I just wanted to indulge on a thought I had carried from dinner. As we were eating, Anika made up a story for me with ease and finesse, and I had an epiphany while I listened.

The story was of a middle-aged man operating an ice cream truck by the coast. He was, if anything else, just another ice cream truck on the road, but his truck was special in his was the only one people bought from. At the start though, it was unfortunate event after another. The thing was, each truck had their own location given by the city to where they could serve. It was common for other drivers to encroach on another location to get more customers because there were no repercussions. But this man never set a foot outside his designated streets. Other drivers began eating away at his area like a starved pack of animals and the man lost all his ground in a matter of weeks. He was left with three streets in a crummy location downtown next to gray skyscrapers and government buildings. The area was full of people who looked too busy and professional to eat ice cream, and consequently, he sold nothing. Despite this, he kept to the same schedule. He would get up at six in the morning everyday, service the freezers and replenish the ice cream, fill up his gas tank, and he'd set off around the three streets.

Even during the harshest weather or protests near the city centre, he would bring his truck around the few streets he had left in hopes to serve people wanting an ice cream. Things seemed grim for the man as he hadn't sold a single ice cream in weeks until someone waved him down on a Friday afternoon. It was a plump looking man wearing business attire and he asked the driver why he saw his truck in the area so often.

"Well, it's because this is my spot." The man explained. He shared his experience with the other drivers and how they operated in the city. The businessman seemed dismayed by the news. He offered to buy an ice cream and the driver promptly served it to him. They chatted for a long time eating ice cream before the man had to leave for a meeting. In the end, the driver had only sold a single ice cream but he was satisfied.

The next month, a bylaw was passed by the city to enforce ice cream truck zones and there was a newsletter posted about a ice cream truck who only served three streets. The same businessman flagged down the ice cream truck and shared the news. "That means you have all your locations again!" He exclaimed. But, the driver shook his head. The three streets that he'd been confined to had become a part of him, and he wouldn't be leaving.

Twenty years flew past and the man's ice cream truck became infamous throughout the country.

It didn't take too long to recognize that this story was influenced by me, but I listened to all of it without interrupting Anika. She seemed entranced in her flow of words like she was drawing silk from her mouth and I could finally understand why people were impressed with her. I asked her why the man didn't give up and she said that the man was only doing this for himself. Whatever the world may throw at him, he would only keep going, because that's how he wanted to live.

That left a heavy impression on me as the night deepened. For the longest of times, I could never understand my reason to get back up. It always felt like I was viewing something with a vague outline. The reason to get up was there but without a concrete idea of where to point myself, I fumbled in the darkness. I didn't have a goal in mind like the man in the story and there was nothing to distract me from facing the world, and I wasn't being honest with myself either. I was constantly painting my life in ways I wanted to see it.

Yet, no matter how many times I tripped over myself, I never stayed down.

Perhaps it was for my mother. I mulled. Maybe I just wanted to keep living for my mother's sake. If I failed, it would be like betraying her will. She had raised me to keep going no matter what may appear in my path. If I was raised any differently, I would've given up in the beginning.

But, the longer I stayed with that thought, the more it became evident that what I had done these past few months were on my own regard. I was living for myself. She may have laid the groundwork for who I would become but without my own will, all of her work would be meaningless. In the end, it was only me and without even knowing it, I was progressing step by step. The past couldn't be changed and I couldn't force myself to be someone I wasn't. I had been so focussed on conforming myself to who I thought I wanted to be and how to approach it that it blinded me. I thought I was all alone and that I had to fend for myself. But I realized there were people in my world like Kristy and her family and Anika that were willing to support me. To bring people like that into my life confused me. I began to lose touch with my thoughts and things didn't make sense the way they used to, like the connection between reality was cut in two. My mother had changed the way I approached life forever and Kristy's father was right. Everything had been skewed the way I wanted to see it, and I had to change.

Anika was to move out at the end of the month, and I stayed with her until then. After she took me in, I had no desire to occupy myself at all times. When I'd usually be walking around the streets with my headphones in or leafing through books at a library, I now found myself relaxing in Anika's home. Since she lived so close to the beach, I took up swimming and sunbathed on the heat-soaked sand, not scared of the ants lurking around me. Once I came back, I listened to Anika's collection of albums while sitting on her porch, writing in my journal or napping. Most of the records were from the fifties' with beaten up packages from repeated listens, but the individual records were pristine and the music came out smooth. Often, I'd see her tend to her records by spraying them with water and tenderly drying them with a microfiber cloth before shelving them, and I began to follow her careful procedure after each listen.

We spent much of our time on our own. Anika would be in her room writing from noon to night and after I'd come back from the beach, I would be by the telephone, waiting for a call to ring up. The calls were much more infrequent than I thought, and when they did come, I rarely had to note anything down. Every date had already been pre-confirmed with Anika's approval and the calls were merely reminders. If a call needed an approval, I would simply transfer the call to Anika's phone and a little jingle would appear in the other room.

During the dead time, I brought out the few photos I had of my parents and skimmed through them. Whereas before, I wouldn't even have given them a second glance, I indulged in these memories and allowed them to play out. In one of them, we were standing in a parking lot under the Golden Gate bridge and my parents were next to me wearing proud smiles. In another, we were on vacation at the place I had talked about with my father that summer night.

I remembered my father telling me on the day of her funeral how my mother wouldn't want me to cry. Once my father left though, my tears just wouldn't stop. But in the grand scheme of things, they were meaningless and only served the purpose of relieving the emotions pent up inside me. I couldn't cry my mother back so there was no reason to cry once I had calmed down. It was quite a cynical way of looking at it, but I had to be honest.

Rather than thinking in my mother's place and looking inwards, I shifted my thoughts back to myself and began to look out. I'd been so self-centered for so long that I got caught up with being who I should be rather than being who I wanted to be, and I finally felt something had sloughed off. The weight that had planted roots in my body was slowly withering inside me, and gram by gram, I was waking up from a deep slumber.

Coming to terms with myself was like a revelation and I found a mysterious satisfaction in what was to come the next day. I would wake up to the orange sunrise and watch as the same sun left the horizon, lost in the wine coloured skies. Seeing the sky transition from palette to palette brought the colours back into my life and I thought about what Kristy's father had said. It really was like a confirmation that I was alive.

Anika took me out to a cafe she frequented near the end of the month. I had helped her pack the rest of her belongings and scheduled the delivery truck to arrive the day after. We ate and discussed where I would go once she left.

"I would gladly let you live with me if you wanted." Anika said, taking a bite of her strawberry short cake.

"I'd like that a lot." I said honestly. "But I think it's time for me to leave."

"And you're not running away again, are you?"

"God, no." I shook my head in concise turns. "I'm going back home. It's about time I've come back."

Anika made a warm smile, the ones where the edges of her eyes would curl up ever so slighty.

"Would you still work for me after I move?" She asked. "It's not a terribly long trip and you can swim and relax just like before. Plus, I can have a friend of mine drive you back home. It's a friendly neighbourhood that place."

I agreed without a second thought.

"I would love to."

Anika paid the check and we walked by the marina on the way back. She seemed to find a fascination in boats.

"I'd love to take a boat out to the middle of nowhere someday."

"To fish?"

"To write." She corrected me. "One of the best ways to get the mind started is to shake it with fear, like an old diesel engine. Once I'm so far out I can't see land anymore, I would throw away the canisters of fuel that would take me home, point the bow towards a coming storm, and write like a crazy!"

"And what if the boat doesn't make it through the storm?"

"I would bottle up the story and toss it into the ocean. Whoever finds it will either burn it like the Nazis or publish it for my sake. Or maybe they would put it up as a family heirloom. What do you think?"

My mind was still stuck on how she could be so relaxed talking about her death wish. Shaking the thought, I gave her a little scenario. Since staying with Anika, I'd begun to write on my own time.

"Let's say the bottle washes up on... a Costa Rica island. And, the person who picks it up happens to be the only one who can read English. They would take the piece of paper around their little town and translate the story for locals, and they'd be so enthralled the story becomes idolized in the island. A few decades later, the story is translated back to English and shakes the writing world on fire. How could some uneducated islanders write such a masterpiece? They'd say. Turns out, it wasn't. Says the person. And then they would reveal the original manuscript with your name on it."

She digested the story for a moment as we passed by a row of anchored boats. One of them had a picture of Marilyn Monroe on its stern.

"It doesn't sound very satisfying if my name is on it, huh? I guess I won't write my name down with it. Whoever picks it up will be the rightful owner of the manuscript."

"You aren't worried that people will use your work only for their own gain?"

"Not at all." She shook her head. "My words are sedimentary. Once they are written, the story exists. And as long as the story exists for people to experience for themselves, I couldn't care if the money went to me or someone else."

"How can you be so selfless?" I asked with a genuine curiosity.

She dwelled on my question and then smiled.

"That's the power of choice." Anika said, then held her hand as we approached the wooden steps back to the sidewalk. I took her hand and carefully led her up the stairs.

"I am satisfied with my life choices, Diego. Regret is the worst human emotion in my opinion. One part of you wants to be happy but the other part hesitates, like it's hoisting you back. It asks you, "was this really worth it?" Worth what? Is anything in life worthwhile anyways? I don't have the time in my life to be thinking of that crap!"

"Because we only have so much time."

"Exactly." Anika said.

"If that's the case, do you think I should go to school?"

She seemed taken aback by the question at first but looked at me with a stern expression.

"School is important. It's true you can make a career out of anything at this point. You could go collect cigarette butts in the deepest part of Chinatown for eight hours and probably make more than half of this country does! But, nobody really wants to do that, right? If you are truly committed to a career path, I say do it. Get a diploma, degree, bachelor – whatever they call it, and live the life you want."

I didn't know what I was expecting to hear from her, but somewhere I had a whim that she would say something like this. I had been thinking about going into some sort of business job for a time now. Well, a job without too much physical aspects. The business route just seemed like the most accessible to most people. I told Anika my thoughts and she seemed to like it.

"It suits you. You've done a great job for me and I would be a pretty killer reference for the future." She laughed. "Just keep doing what you're doing and you'll be amazing."

Those words really warmed my heart and helped me make a big decision that night.

As the sun fell, Anika brought a chair to the balcony and joined me with a cup of hot chocolate. The last spell of beach goers came and went, leaving the beach for the night. Sharply etched clouds were dyed in sunset colours like a hem of a dress. We sat and watched the sky for some time before she briefly disappeared inside and reemerged with a blanket. She curled up in her chair with her cup in her lap.

"Even though I get to see the sunset every night, I don't think I've sat out here to watch it in a long time."

"Isn't that because you're writing all day?" I joked.

When she didn't respond, I shut up. She had a solemn look in her eyes as she traced the sky.

"When your mother died. I couldn't even look outside. I was so scared of watching another day end that I stapled all my blinds together. Can you believe that?"

I recalled looking up to her apartment only to see her's was the only one with the blinds closed. I hadn't considered that she might have been inside all that time.

"I can, actually." I replied after careful thought.

"But watching it now, I can't feel that fear anymore. I don't want it to end."

I agreed with her in silence. We watched the rest of the sunset and went back inside when it became chilly.

With the chairs being the last pieces needing to be put away, Anika was ready to leave the next morning. There was nothing to identify who lived in the apartment anymore. All life of the previous owner had been stripped away, leaving barren walls and spotless floors. Anika was moving across town and I would go back home. I laid on the couch until I finally felt my consciousness fade.

We managed to get all the boxes and furniture into the truck before ten in the morning. Anika had a friend drive the three of us across town. He was a thin man in his fifties', probably also an author and he owned a antique Ford sedan. The two didn't stop talking throughout the whole ride.

Seeing that I wanted to keep working with Anika, I tagged along to memorize the route to her place. We took the Bay Bridge and cruised up the coast through Emeryville. Seeing all the places I've never been to before whizz past brought back fond memories of the few trips I had when my father was free. The little Beetle he borrowed from his friend always stunk of diesel.

We eventually made it to a suburb nested on a small hill. Trees of varying heights and widths blotted the sun and bushes and shrubs with little flower gardens partitioned the streets. Every house we drove past seemed to be massive. Driving past a corner and a roundabout, the trees opened up and the sky could be seen again. A little while later, an expansive condominium appeared in the distance, and the truck was already waiting for us in the parking lot. Amusingly, there were palm trees next to the beach across from the building.

By noon, all of her belongings were inside and we waved goodbye to the truck, who puttered away into the growth of trees. The friend suggested he drop by the grocery store to grab something fresh to eat and took off in his car. From the inside, the condo wasn't all too big, but there was a large sheet of glass that stretched from the kitchen to the living room and gave a clear view of the beach and the horizon. Oil tankers in the distance seemed like microscopic dots poked into the ocean.

Anika and I unloaded everything from the boxes and managed to make the room a little more homely by the time the friend came back. The friend made a delicious quinoa salad and sourdough bread for us to munch on. After we'd finished eating, it was nearing two in the afternoon and Anika came to me and told me I should go. She asked her friend to drive me back and gave me an envelope before we left.

"This is a little something from me. Open it when you get back."

It was a generic white envelope that had been sealed with wax. I had a recollection of the time my father gave me an envelope and how it became the catalyst for who I was now. I wanted to open it then and there but Anika stopped me and smiled.

"Don't get lost, okay?"

Her voice sounded strained, and I gave her a tight hug.

"I won't."

After thanking the man for dropping me off, I pointed myself up the hill and began walking towards the house. My bag that I had once stuffed to the brim felt so light in my hand and I made it to the top in a brisk pace. After leaving for almost half a year, the neighbourhood looked like it had come out of metamorphosis. The trees and grass were now full and lively. There was a distinct smell of fresh cut grass in the air and somewhere someone was barbecuing. Faraway sounds of laughter compounded me as I walked down the sidewalk.

Eventually, all those sounds and smells dissipated and I found the end of the neighbourhood. The house that had looked so small before looked even more shrunken, like the rain had stripped away its nutrients. The monkey grass swarmed the wiry fence like vines and the front yard was indistinguishable. In the back of my brain, I hoped that my father had come back to the house.

Maybe he would be waiting for me again, but the longer I stood at the entrance and examined the home, the less I believed anyone had interacted with it. The mailbox was filled to the brim with months old mail and I didn't see anything from the city, which briefly put me at ease. My father must've set up an automatic payment account for the house. In my mind, that could only mean he intended on coming back or he hoped I would keep living in the house. The latter, obviously, didn't happen but it was comforting to know that my father was still looking out for me, even then.

Holding my breath, I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. I was met with a still silence and the stale air reminded me of death. Heavy shadows made objects appear muted and blurry and there was a thin layer of dust on everything. Drawing all the blinds open, I could see that the house was untouched. It had stayed the exact same way as I had left it months ago. When I could only think of leaving to when I returned, the house remained a fixed entity in my life. It was a home to no one, but that would change.

I set down my bag in the kitchen and went about throwing out the foods that had gone to waste. Even the trash bin outside looked gray and emasculated. I spent the next hour doing my best job cleaning up the dust and airing out the rooms. I swept the whole house and went about washing my clothes that I had brought with me. While the washing machine tumbled on, I guided myself back to the kitchen and found the letter from my father. The envelope was sun dyed and the note he'd written for me felt like it would crumble into dust, as if something had sucked out its structure. Somewhere in the smudged lines was his final message to me; he was going back to Costa Rica and didn't know when he'd come back.

I sat at the table and carefully retrieved the check in the letter. Even viewing it a second time, the number on the paper seemed astronomical to me and I had to look at it several times to confirm it within me, and then I felt sick. My father had set aside so much money for me for so many years that me rejecting it must've broke his heart. Imagine someone throwing your life work into the trash. In the heat of the moment, I couldn't, and I felt the deepest regret for doing so.

In much the same way my father sat at the table, I had replaced his spot in the house. I zoned out as I listened to the mechanical whirr of the washing machine echoing through the house. Every now and then, the refrigerator thermostat would kick on and then turn off again. The southerly winds rustled the window panes. Sometimes I would hear a different sound coming from the house and I would snap out of it, but it seemed to be just my imagination. I waited half an hour in the same spot until a loud clunk told me the clothes were finished.

After hanging them outside at the height of the afternoon, I left the house and walked down the sidewalk with an odd feeling. It was a mix of accomplishment and failure with the nostalgia of pain in the back of my brain. Even though this was a huge step for me, the emotions that I expected were delayed. I couldn't even find the motivation to react to anything.

I ordered dinner at a cafe I frequented as a child and was out on the sidewalk by eight in the evening. The sky was beginning to darken as the sunset approached. Where I would usually turn to head back home, I turned the other direction and headed for the only park near me.

It was a small lot of land that developers didn't seem to like. There was a creaky playground in one corner, a flower garden in another, and where people entered from, there was a blank sign post nailed to a plank of wood. Seemingly, this park didn't have a name yet.

I traced the perimeter of the park before I stepped inside and relaxed on a bench. It brought back memories of the first night I had spent with Kristy. Even though I was sapped of energy, there was an innate quality within Kristy that managed to extract a lengthy conversation from me. I remembered what she had said and how she would scream her lungs out whenever she felt frustrated.

I looked around me and noticed that there was no one in the park besides me. So, just out of curiosity, I got up, took a deep breath, and screamed at the top of my lungs. I screamed so loud I felt my ears popping.

Out of breath and flushed of blood, I sat back in the bench and looked up at the sky. If there really was a paradise like heaven, I wanted my mother to see that I was going to be okay. For the first time in my life, I clasped my hands together and prayed to her. I had screamed everything out and I had dried my tears. After falling down time and time again, I had returned home. My mother always knew I would get back up even if I fell.

Keep moving or the ants would get you! She'd say.

Before I left the park and while it was still light out, I brought out the letter Anika had given me. She had instructed me to open it when I got back home and I was dying to find out what it may be. Part of me wanted to keep it tucked away so I couldn't be surprised but I knew eventually I would have to open it. I peeled off the wax and set it aside. Inside was a wad of cash and a series of folded notes. I carefully read through one of the notes.

"Dear Diego,

Thank you for helping me these few weeks. You're probably still finding it strange that you're not home at the moment. Or maybe not. Hopefully, you've found your stay pleasant.

I know this may go as a surprise to you, but I haven't actually been writing stories at all. After three weeks of cramming as much as I could to paper, I've taken a break for now and have been writing noon to night on these crinkled sheets of paper for you. You don't know this, of course. You're sitting outside on the balcony writing in your journal right now.

P.S. You should find a better pen. The way you write looks uncomfortable. But I digress.

I believe I owe you an apology. After I move, I'm sure you'll understand that you need to make another big step in your life. You are a very self-directed individual so this will come to you naturally. Both you and your mother share this trait. But, I have kept information from you.

There's a misconception about the way people interact with each other. If you're close, it feels like there's no reason to have walls between each other, and vice versa. Why spend the effort keeping all your thoughts, desires, and regrets to yourself if you personally align with the other individual? Well, in many cases this is simply justified. We all have secrets we want to keep to ourselves. There are certain things that cannot be shared no matter how close you are to another, so there is a natural wall between everyone. And while you may think you have everyone sorted out, please understand that the world is bigger than everyone thinks. I didn't think it was morally correct to tell you these things while you were so vulnerable. And that's why I've held off of writing this for the past month. You deserve this information but I had to be sure that you were ready otherwise I would live the rest of my life knowing I hurt you beyond repair. But now, you have become much stronger than before.

...

I've been speaking with your father.

Well, to be more precise, I've been exchanging messages to him through letters. Your father can't speak at this moment. When I asked if you had spoken to your father yet, I already knew your answer before you even opened your mouth. You didn't know.

This created a dilemma for me because you had every right to know this information but I withheld it for your own safety. At the time I met you near that community centre, I was sure you would've drowned in guilt if I had.

I believe three months after your mother's death, he came back from Costa Rica to find that you were gone. He contacted me to ask if I had seen you but I said I hadn't. It had been a month and a half since I went down to your house and nobody answered me then, so I assumed you had left.

When I found you, I wanted to send a letter to him right away but I held back because I figured it was best for you to talk to him in person.

He was accepted into a hospital not too far from my old apartment. You should know where it is. It's a tall-ish concrete building with layers of windows on each side and white lights. Just go down a few blocks to the east and you'll find it. As of now, he's been there for the past two months and I've visited him a number of times.

Now, you're probably thinking it's all your fault again. You might think you should go repent for your sins or something. Or maybe you'll run away again. But, at this point, I want to say you won't. I trust you, Diego.

Don't think everything is your fault. Your father neglected his health when he came back. He searched for you around the clock and only ate when it was absolutely necessary. I would know because I was with him. He had come back in no shape to do such things. I haven't seen someone so selfish in my entire life. He was even skinnier than you, had a bad back, and always seemed to run out of breath. I tried to convince him that there was no need to push himself so hard everyday, but he was absolutely fixed on finding you, even though he had no idea where to start. We would go around the city asking if anyone had seen you.

Inevitably, he collapsed. I rushed him to the hospital but he didn't open his eyes for a month. The doctors had him hooked up to so many machines at one point that I couldn't even recognize him. But, after the treatment was over, your father thankfully woke up. He was confined to his bed of course, but he could move his arms and wanted to get up from the first day. After telling him over and over that he couldn't, your father gave in and sunk back in the bed. I tried to have a conversation with him but I found he couldn't speak. The doctors said he had a stroke and injured some regions of his brain. They didn't say he could never speak again, but the chances were slim he could ever regain that function.

Your father is slowly recovering and I'm sure you now know what you have to do. I've left you with money to help you in the future. Rest assured, I've been covering your father's expenses so don't go looking for another job!"

I flipped the page.

"How much you value my opinion is entirely up to yourself, but I do believe you are a very kind soul and what you've been able to do by yourself is truly commendable. You're constantly going out of your way to help others and when you make those mistakes (which are few), you are quick to make reparations. You feel like its necessary to always consider others, and I appreciate that. The world needs more of you.

How nice would it be to have you as my son! I'm sure there are plenty of people who would love to know about you.

It's been reassuring to see you out of my apartment so much these days. While I would like to go out with you, I think giving you space to recalibrate yourself was the better decision. You needed the peace of mind that you had a place to stay and had food to eat. And without those variables on your mind all day, I'm sure you found your footing again. I can only give you so much before the gravel strip ends and you have to walk on your own. We all have those moments, I guess. How were my albums by the way? Pretty neat, huh? I've had them since I was your age.

Sometimes while you sit on the balcony, I wonder what was going through your head. You always wear a very still expression, almost as if you're breaking down your emotions and assembling them like a hardened contractor. I bet you didn't even notice I was walking by to the kitchen that one time. You were completely out of it!

And that got me thinking, how could anyone not see you're one of the most interesting people in the world?

But I know the answer. You're so hard on yourself that it makes it hard for others to see who you really are.

It's almost like you want to start over every time you feel the situation growing dire. Instead of rebuilding your way back up, you abandon it. You want to run away because you're scared you'll make the same mistake again, and that's holding you back from achieving great things, like your very own Achilles heel. Just as quickly as you can draw the emotions out of someone, you can just as easily bottle up your own and leave people waiting. You have such a beautiful way of getting someone to care for you, you know that? People want to help you, Diego, but we can't do anything if you don't reach out. You probably know this already, but it feels like you don't want to accept there are people who are weaker than you. You keep putting everyone around you on a pedestal.

Look around, Diego. In the end, we are all in the same boat."

I put down the sheet of paper and looked around the park as she had written. I needed to ground myself. There was something so surreal about reading Anika's words. She was speaking to me through her words, I felt. If I shut my eyes, I could totally imagine her sitting next to me, talking to my heart. And spread out with her words was an honesty derived only for me. Without me even knowing, she had completely deconstructed who I was and revealed a secret that brought a new life in me. My father had already come back, and he was now in a hospital, unable to speak. He had overexerted himself trying to find me and collapsed. The doctors said it was a stroke and he damaged a part of his brain.

Anika knew I would react in my unusual ways. When did I become so irrational anyways? It wasn't that long ago when I thought I had my life figured out to a tee. But now, I was in a middle ground. I felt something akin to heartbreak reading that my father had deteriorated to such a point because he was looking for me. Yet another part of me wanted to run to the hospital right away to see my father and tell him he didn't need to worry anymore.

Be realistic. I told myself. Visitor hours were already over and the earliest time I could see him was tomorrow. I sighed a deep breath and unfolded the last sheet of paper. It was much shorter than her previous entry.

"This will probably be the last page. I don't have much to say anymore. I had let everything out on the other sheet of paper and now I'm simply going with the motions. This is a habit of mine; rambling like this. If your mother was here, she'd probably give me a hardy smack on the back and tell me there was always something to write. I smile when I think of that. But right now, I'm comfortable airing out my thoughts.

Sooner or later, I will have another release. This story has been carefully crafted with your mother's input, and in effect, is your mother's lasting legacy. I've held off finishing the story because your mother passed before we could reach the climax, so I shelved it. I was too broken to keep going. But after meeting you, I finally found the motivation to dust it off and start writing again.

She will live on through the book; I merely brought life to her words to reach others. I hope you'll be the first one to read it. It would mean so much to me and your mother.

I'm sure you're tired of hearing me ramble on, and I apologize for that. I've never encountered someone aside from your mother who would listen to me completely and honestly. You might not believe it but there are a lot of people who would rather do something else than listen to me. This makes me even more confused why I keep getting so many interviews! For goodness sake people, I'll release a title when it's ready. They always ask the same questions too, "oh, who will be doing the cover?" and, "how many endorsements will it have?" and I always respond with the same boring responses. When will it get through their thick heads that those things don't matter? Not this time, though! I'll let them know everything they want. Each and every litle detail about this novella will be perfectly tailored. It's your mother's story after all. I'm sure you'll love it.

Yours truly,

Anika