Of course I expected the world -- and my daughters -- to change. It's nearly thirty years since I passed on. Still, I hardly recognize the place. Day spas on every corner. Miniature telephones. And such racy television programs. Though I do love that "Sex and the City."
And yet, some things never change. Stubbornness. Pettiness. Families who fight. Like mine. Especially my older daughter, Shelby.
She stopped speaking to the family. Hasn't been home in years. And it's not as if her romantic life is so great, either. She may be this hot-shot journalist, but she's still thirty-eight and as single as a sock in the dryer.
Enough is enough, I thought. There must be a way to get her to come home. Make nice with her father. Pal around with her adoring sister. Maybe even reunite with that little neighbor boy she never stopped loving.
One tiny problem. We've been warned about tinkering with divine intervention. But here's a universal truth every mother in the afterlife knows. Whether dead or alive, the job never ends. So, my darling Shelby, that wake-up call YOU hear tomorrow morning? It's not the Ritz. Just a little help from above.
