Page 84 of Made for Mayhem

“Dammit, Vi,” I said through a watery laugh, surprised yet again by my sister’s antics, even now.

I can’t cash in on bets anymore, but I’m going to say it’s been at least a week, and my ashes are sitting in some facility waiting for you to call and pick them up. That’s fine. I deserve to wait, because fuck me, right?

I laughed again, swiping at my cheeks with my sleeve.

Today my doctor told me I’m dying. Not in a might-die kind of way. It’s inevitable. And I’m angry.

I’m outraged at my body for betraying me. Furious at how much I’m leaving behind. Livid that I’ll never see Junie’s awkward teenage years or teach her how to drive or watch her fall in love with the wrong person and have to sit there silently while she makes her own mistakes.

But most of all, I’m angry that she doesn’t have a parent who was supposed to love her. Her dad couldn’t be bothered to stay. And now I’m about to check out too.

The only reason I can breathe through that is you.

You, Daisy Winslow, my human hurricane, are the one thing that makes this whole thing feel not so unbearable. You’ve always been the fighter. The one who keeps everyone else afloat even when you’re drowning.

You’re probably reading this with your jaw set and your fists clenched, pretending you’re fine.

But you’re not fine. I’m not fine. And that’s okay.

So let’s be mad. We should be.

Yell at the sky. Scream at me. Curse the universe. Let it out.

But let’s not let it change us, okay? I need my Daisy girl, now more than ever. Not the fake version you’ve been clinging to in Chicago, but my precious, obnoxious baby sister who can find good in any situation, for better or worse.

Tears slipped free, hitting the paper in fat droplets, but I kept reading, not wanting to let go yet.

But do you know what I’m not mad about?

I’m not mad that you’re in Linwood, back where we were always happiest.

And I’m not mad that the cute neighbor with the dog and the savior complex thinks Junie hung the moon.

When I look for the good in this fucking terrible story, I hope maybe this—coming home, cleaning up my chaos, loving my kid—helps you find yourself again.

You’re probably crying right now and pretending it’s just dust. Maybe you’re mad this letter isn’t full of some profound acceptance garbage.

That will come later.

Today, we’ll be angry. Messy. Break things.

And when we’re done breaking… build.

Build me a new home, a new life. Fill in the gaps and make it yours. Knowing you, it’ll be better than I ever could’ve imagined.

Now go take care of my girl.

And yourself.

And maybe let the hot neighbor help with both.

To the moon,

V

P.S. If you find the wallpaper I bought for the hallway—burn it. It looks like an old-lady couch. I was on pain meds, and I deeply regret it.

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