Flowers for her Granddaughter For her birthday, my friend Katie* wanted to send her granddaughter flowers and asked for my help, which I’m happy to give because Katie is somewhat…
I killed my mother. That's what I think the next morning when I see her on the floor in the kitchen with a puddle of orange juice floating around her.
I began to hope Darla could succeed. I'd been writing a fictional version (originally entitled Sneakers for obvious reasons) inspired by my experience with Darla.
As things began to deteriorate, my husband always said, "We got her too late." Maybe he was right. By the time I met Darla, her path was already set.
Although it was inspired by friends of mine who have five daughters, one of whom is named Stephanie, and one of whom (the youngest) had a Christmas wedding, I'm not sure why I decided to write a romantic Christmas novella.
I know now parenting is not easy. As a child I didn’t understand my parents were who they were. Human beings with flaws and hopes and dreams and disappointments and baggage.
He’s got custody of his newborn daughter which he’s ill-equipped to handle. His son wants nothing to do with him. Emmaline’s sister shows up at his door and blames him for her death. The daughter Doug never knew about because Emmaline gave her up for adoption without telling him arrives, bringing her own anger and abandonment issues.
She had been in a nursing home for several years, deteriorating at a snail’s pace. On my annual visits, my brother and I would question the wisdom of stockpiling old people in places like this.
“We did the best we could.” At the time I thought, yeah right. That was your best? Well, it wasn’t nearly good enough. Parents of their generation didn’t compliment their children because they didn’t want them to get a big head.