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Then suddenly, I found out I had a gift.

Instead of spending the proper time getting to know this gift, I let others rush me to a false finish line.

I let others tell me what my gift was and how it worked.

Their version of who I was and what I had to offer suddenly became reality, but it was never the truth.

Alas, I got caught up in perpetuating who the world thought I was, so as not to disappoint anyone.

I wish I saw it coming, how that would end up.

Lesson learned: You don’t have to know who you are exactly.

You just have to know who you’re not. I’m not a witch, and I’m sorry to anyone who I upset by thinking it was a smart business move pretending to be one.

I wasn’t sure what I was doing. But I am sure about one thing, and that is that we all have gifts, those things that make each of us unique and special.

Whatever yours may be, be sure to get to know it; celebrate it. And above all, believe in it.

Until we meet again, that’s what I’ll be working on…

After that gets posted, I grab my phone and pull up my Instagram.

I’ve lost at least a thousand followers between last night and this morning.

Hateful DMs that I will never read continue to flood my inbox.

I head over to my settings and turn off all comments, likes, and messages, and set my account to private.

I upload a final post that’s just a screen shot of the message that’s on my home page.

What’s on my heart is officially up, and Moon Batch Apothecary is officially down.

Even I’m shocked by how immediate the silence is.

After just a few clicks and taps, there are no more dings.

There are no more buzzes. There are no more alerts, light up messages, or pop-ups.

The unfounded hate may continue, but it has nowhere to go.

I am sheltering in place, just as Yasmin instructed.

In the newfound quiet, I sit back on my bed. My head hits the envelope that Nora handed me. With notmuch else to do, I rip open the pull-tab on the mailer, which is marked “IMPORTANT: DO NOT BEND.”

Immediately, out drops two pieces of paper along with a check. I wonder, for the moment, if this is some forgotten severance package from Gavin, but I know I was paid in full before my move back. He is a solid guy like that, ensuring that his people were always taken care of.

I start with piece of paper number one, a letter. My eye darts to the signature line first, it’s from Betty, Gerda’s neighbor and assisted living buddy.

Dear Moonie,

It is with a heavy heart that I write to inform you Gerda passed away.

While I miss my dear friend profoundly, her death marks the end of a four-year battle with pancreatic cancer.

I’m just so glad that I could accompany her on her final wish, which was to move into Oceanhurst and play pickleball for the rest of her days.

It was never my intention to move there, but as her best friend, I couldn’t let her go alone.

We had an amazing time riding out our friendship.

Enough about us.

Before Gerda and I moved to Oceanhurst, she made it clear to me that when her time came, she wanted me to contact you—for a variety of reasons.

The first of which is to let you know you are in her last will and testament.

Seeing that she and Larry did not have children, Gerda felt as if you were the closest thing to a granddaughter.

Therefore, she set aside some inheritance money for you.

A check made out to you is included in this package.

Secondly, as you are aware, Gerda’s property was demolished and a three-story, three-unit development took its place.

Part of the agreement of the sale was that she’d get rights to the first-floor unit.

While there’s no great view of the ocean, the completely paid-for, two-bedroom condo remains vacant—with your name on the deed.

She’s set aside a trust to cover the taxes for the next 30 years as well.

Should you decide you’d like to take up residence there, the developer’s contact information is on the other page included in this package.

At your convenience, you can arrange with him to obtain the keys.

I hope you find your way back to Ocean Beach, Moonie.

All the best,

Betty

Tears stream down my cheeks as I fold the letter in half and stuff it back in the envelope. I have so many questions— so many . Oceanhurst was Gerda’s idea? Gerda was sick and I didn’t even know it? But most of all, Gerda’s gone?

It’s not like we remained pen pals after I left, but for two years of my life, she was—for all intents and purposes—my grandmother, just like this letter from Betty implies. And while we’re at it, she was my mother. She was my friend. She was my soul sister. She was a wonderful spirit.

I flash over to the other piece of paper. It’s clerical in nature—inclusive of the name and contact information of the developer who bought her land—Phil Santos, along with the address and a small blue print of the unit that’s apparently mine if I want it???

This is a lot to digest. So I declare it all “a tomorrow-thing” as I fold up that piece of paper and stuff it back into the envelope

Finally, there’s the check. The loose floating check that’s landed on top of the duvet next to me like a maple leaf finding its new resting place on the sidewalk in the fall. I pick it up and my eyes go straight to the total: $250,000.

I sit up straight like I’ve found myself suddenly choking on a piece of bread and put my hand to my chest in an attempt to find my breath.

This has got to be some kind of a mistake.

My eyes must be miscalculating the number of zeroes, multiplying them into a sum that only dreams are made of.

But no, it says what it says—and it’s exactly what dreams are made of.

The moment I stepped foot back into the 312 area code, the clock started.

For a brief moment, I thought maybe Ollie could keep me here.

I thought he was Esther Higgins’s the one— the one you make a change of plans for.

But the Ollie Experience has taught me otherwise.

It’s taught me that roots are important.

And maybe, unlike what I thought when I left, I really had some good ones already going.

With any luck, they’re still there, waiting for me.

Like fanning a flipbook , images of my old life pop into my head.

The original cast of characters who defined my time in OB make appearances in my brain: Gerda , Betty, Cassie, Walter, Tres , Yas , Gavin, and Brody /Kevin—yes, even he makes the cut.

Not lost on me in my own chaos isthinking just how simple a guy Brody was.

Over-analyzing things was definitely not in his repertoire.

And that’s what sounds good to me right now. Simple. Sweet.

The day I realized Esther could have meant Ollie, I all-but forgot about Brody . But to this day, I still don’t have any proof she meant one over the other. Don’t get it twisted. I still believe in her gift. But I have it, too—and I know as well as anyone…even special people get it wrong sometimes.

So I pick up my phone and text Brody. By now, he’s probably moved on. He’s probably seeing another girl—or five. Does he ever still think of me? It’s a long shot that he’ll even answer, but there’s something on my mind. I have to ask Brody aquestion. My future happiness depends on it.

The butterflies descend on my stomach the moment I hit send.

Was this a terrible idea, I wonder? While I wait for a reply, I fetch my laptop once more and do a quick search for which airline has the soonest direct flight to San Diego.

There was a time I wantedBrody to come find me in Chicago, but now I’m convinced it’s me who just needs to show up there.

Seconds later, Brody replies to my text. He still has my number saved. He still wants to talk.

I read his reply again.

Sweet. Simple.

It’s official. I have a reason to head home.