Then I wrote the hardest short note of my life.
I told him what Dad’s final line actually meant. I told him about the Sunday Dad was too weak to stand but leaned on the counter anyway and made pancakes so burnt they set off the smoke alarm because he wanted to make me laugh one more time before he couldn’t.
I asked Mr. Harlan, if he believed me, to ask the real author about my dad’s final note. Nothing more.
I told him what Dad’s final line actually meant.
***
Miss Garcia told me that all the color drained from her face.
Then came Brittany’s voice, thinner now.
“Well, you see, um. You need to understand that Dad really loved pancakes.”
“Go on…”
“And, um, well, the note was about, you know. Staying positive.”
Miss Garcia told me that all the color drained from her face.
I actually pressed my hand over my mouth! Pancakes. Positive. My dad’s whole philosophy reduced to a breakfast pep talk.
“Miss,” Mr. Harlan said gently, “an earlier handwritten draft reached me last night, along with a note from the author explaining that exact line. Miss Garcia confirmed the writing history.”
A chair scraped.
“Thank you for your time.”
