Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
It was an obituary. I clicked into it.
At the top was a photo of a beautiful brown-haired woman with her arm around a little blonde girl—a younger Birdie.
Amanda Maxwell, age 32, of New York City passed away on December 23.
Amanda was raised in Guilford, Connecticut, and enjoyed summers growing up alongside her many cousins, all of whom grew up along the Connecticut shoreline. She enjoyed hosting large family parties at the home she shared with her husband and daughter.
Amanda attended Guilford High School before graduating from New York University, where she majored in business. It was there that she met the love of her life, Sebastian Maxwell. Amanda worked as a business analyst in Manhattan for several years before attending culinary school. She and her husband, Sebastian, eventually opened a five-star Italian restaurant in Manhattan.
Despite her successes, there was nothing Amanda loved more than being a mom to her darling daughter, Birdie, who was her entire world.
Amanda is survived by her husband, Sebastian, and young daughter, Birdie Maxwell of New York City; her mother, Susan Mello of Guilford, Connecticut; brother Adam Mello of Brooklyn, New York; sister Macie Mello of New Jersey; and many loving aunts, uncles, and cousins.
Amanda requested an intimate burial and funeral in Guilford. The family wishes to thank all of those who surrounded her with love during her last days. For those who wish to celebrate Amanda’s life, visitation will be held at Stuart’s Funeral Home on Main Street in Guilford on January 2 from 4 pm to 9 pm. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you make a memorial donation to St. Jude Children’s Research Hospital in Amanda’s name.
Devin’s voice startled me. “Are you crying?”
I wiped the tears falling from my eyes. “No.”
“What happened?”
I grabbed a tissue and said, “It’s that little girl . . . Birdie.”
“What about her?”
“She . . . sent a thank-you letter with a school photo of herself. And I should’ve just read the letter and stopped there, but I ended up googling her name, and the first thing that popped up was her mother’s obituary. The whole thing just hits really close to home.”
“Ugh. I can imagine. I’m sorry.” Devin looked at my screen, then scrolled up to the photo in the obituary, taking a few seconds to examine it.
I clicked on the icon at the top to exit out of it. “It’s okay. Anyway, I need to just stop thinking about her and get to work.”
“What did her letter say? I take it she got your olives?”
I reached for the envelope and handed it to her.
After Devin read Birdie’s letter, she said, “Oh my God. She sounds so sweet. And the dad . . . looking up videos on how to braid hair? Swoon. I bet he’s hot, too. I mean, the mom was so pretty.”
Feeling oddly defensive, I said, “Will you stop with that?”
“Why?”
My reaction to her talking about the dad—like he was some piece of man candy—sort of caught me off guard. I think I was putting myself in Birdie’s shoes. This whole thing was just such a sensitive subject. Was I sad for me? For Birdie? I didn’t even know anymore.
You know how sometimes you merely think of something and suddenly you see ads all over social media for it, as if the advertisers somehow got inside your brain?
A few days after Birdie’s letter came, I started seeing ads in my feed for these braided headbands made out of synthetic hair. Then once you click on the ad, forget it—they never stop showing them to you. Anyway, this headband looked just like a braid across the top of the head—the exact type of braid Birdie said she wanted.
Before I knew it, a week later, a box with the braided headband inside had arrived at my office address. I’d examined Birdie’s photo to match the headband to the closest shade of blonde.
Taking the candy-cane-striped wrapping-paper roll out from under my desk, I wrapped the braid before addressing the box and sending it on to Eighty-Third Street.
CHAPTER 3
SADIE
Some days I worked in the office, and other days my assignments took me out. For my upcoming online dating feature, titled Best Out of Ten, I scheduled two dates a day for five consecutive days. To minimize the variables involved, I met all ten men at the same exact restaurant, even sitting at the same exact table. The idea of the piece was to determine whether quantity amounted to quality—whether you could find at least one good apple out of ten online prospects.
The answer for me, unfortunately, was no. Not a single one of my ten dates was someone I could see myself meeting again. One of the guys let me foot the entire bill after I offered to pay my half. Never even took out his card. When I asked if he wanted to split it, he informed me that “funds are tight at the moment.” Another guy asked me if I minded letting him smell the inside of my shoe. Apparently, he had a foot fetish. The other eight were no better, each one displaying some characteristic that was a hard no for me.