Unexpected Packages

About seven years ago on a chilly evening, I snuggled next to my mom while we watched television in her room. My sister was downstairs having a slumber party, and Mom and I were upstairs dining on cheez-its, grapes, and a bottle of ridiculously sweet wine.

My parents had separated in late July.

My heart was broken. I was disappointed and disillusioned. Angry. And scared. So scared...

I clung to my mother, to all of the safety and comfort and constance that she provided. And I comforted her, often because I didn't know how to comfort myself.

But on that night, we relaxed and ate and drank and watched a marathon of Murder She Wrote. We allowed ourselves to fall into the delusional happily-ever-after world of J.B. Fletcher, where even when people are murdered, it all ends with a smile. Where the right person always gets it in the end. Where there's never injustice. Where you can rest assured that no lie will remain unexposed for more than an hour. Where Jessica will never let you down.

Where you can trust without any doubt that it will all turn out ok in the end.

And I guess, as I look at the saved programs on my DVR seven years later, Angela Lansbury is still helping me heal.