The whole world is against me! Pea kept saying. She was absolutely convinced that there was not one soul on her side. “This is the apocalypse” she kept telling herself, of course there’s a conspiracy against me.

Pea felt so lonesome it was ridiculous; but the only people she could talk with these days were Yawnee and Funshine Bear. The advantage was that Care Bears ALWAYS cared. Even when they weren’t given a reasonable situation.

The situation was dire and sometimes, Pea couldn’t help wishing that Funshine and Yawnee could take some of the shots for her; they didn’t even take the heat from her parents who just never seemed to give her a break. Constantly on her case at all times. But these were the only friends she had so she’d make do.

But how realistic was that. How on God’s green earth were they supposed to help her. It was pretty obvious Princess Pea lived in a fantasy world and this was what drove her parents (and all others) to distraction.

But really! When you begin to believe to stuffed animals can assist you in a game of Fallout 4! Well there’s no conspiracy against you. You merely have some deep seated psychological issues differentiating between truth and fiction.

Loon.

What a Muppet.

A statement no mother ever wants to hear! Arriving at the hospital took nearly an hour due to the distance. We found one daughter in the ER still covered in blood amidst the sea of white. It was a horrifying experience. A couple hours later, we faced the family of the girls’ friend who was also in the car and severely hurt. No one would share any details about our oldest daughter, Rebecca. That took several hours.

Reliving this story hurts every time I recall it, but the truth is, this is what led to the start of my business, how I managed to connect with the world’s number one leadership guru, John C. Maxwell, and what has enabled me to live my passion of helping others overcome their self-limiting beliefs and begin to grow toward the potential they have inside and the success they desire. To help you understand more fully, let me take you back to the story about the accident. Then I will share the three steps that really jump started my journey.

Rebecca was airlifted to the hospital after being hit by a full size pick-up truck. The force of the impact pushed her across the compact car, her head shattering her friend’s eye socket and breaking her friend’s clavicle in three. Needless to say, the head trauma alone was nearly fatal for Rebecca. Her broken ribs and punctured lungs are the first thing that almost killed her. Life was touch and go for a couple of weeks. We were told not to get our hopes up. When she did live, we were told she may never walk or talk again. There were blood clots throughout her brain. Two months later, she returned home – walking and talking!

The long story short, is that I was able to stay strong throughout the hospital stay. I communicated well via Caring Bridge and stayed connected. After 14 months though, I was exhausted. I got bronchitis and pneumonia. I didn’t get out of bed more than a couple hours a day for ten months! I ended up with post-traumatic stress disorder. I snapped out of it when I decided to pay the bills one night. There I read, “Final Foreclosure Notice”. I will never understand how a person cannot realize they haven’t paid the bills, have no sense of finances, or how so much time can pass within a family and not one of them realizes the severity of the problems. But that, my friends, is the rude awakening that started this business. I have gone from financially ruined, physically and emotionally handicapped to living a life that I thrive in – one filled with prosperity!

How did I do it?

1. Look in the Mirror – Looking inside was one of the greatest challenges I have ever faced. With the help of a personal coach, I weeded through all of the muck – all of the lies I had once believed, the things others told me about myself that covered all the good others had told me. At the time, I believed I was just an average individual with nothing very unique or special. I learned that I am special. I have gifts and experiences that others don’t. I had already worked hard to build two successful businesses. I was a leader. I had learned to connect. I learned that I had much to give!

2. Live Life Intentionally – I realized that if I was going to pull myself out of the horrific slump I was in, I had to make some choices. I had to be intentional with my time. I had to take time out to think long and hard. I had to reflect on where I had been and where I wanted to go. After much exploration, I knew that I needed to continue to be intentional with my choices so that I could grow.

3. Lift the Lid – John C. Maxwell talks about the Law of the Lid. He says that leadership ability determines a person’s level of effectiveness. I realized that I wasn’t very effective where I was at. I needed to extend my reach to those who could help me. I began meeting weekly with a new friend circle – a few ladies with whom intimate conversations could be held. They were older than me and one of them had a business similar to mine. I also started meeting with other local groups filled with professionals from many different industries. Before long, I grew exponentially!

Those are just the first three steps I took to begin changing my life from what I thought was one of ruins to one of prosperity. The beginning was humble. Seven months after I first “looked in the mirror”, Rebecca joined me as I walked from Tybee Island, Georgia (Savannah area) to Shreveport, Louisiana. I shared lessons from our story to help others who may be struggling and not sure how to face their challenges. As a Certified Leadership Coach, Teacher and Speaker, and copywriter I continue to grow with the John Maxwell Team. The sheer joy I have found in following my passion of helping others is second to none!

There is something so alluring about a blank page. The mystery of what could be. The question of what was once but has been erased.

I think it is some combination of the two that draws my gaze toward Ruben and his gang as they hustle through the double glass doors across from my reception desk. They come every Friday, but still their eyes glaze with virgin awe as they study the posters on the walls.

With a polite smile, I wait. Legally, I cannot recommend a thrill unless directly asked. Either the ads will do their jobs in silence or someone will eventually beckon me to speak.

The slap of hard plastic against harder wood threatens to make me flinch as the leader slams a stack of money notes down on my desk.

I win, motionless save for a blink and a slow smile. “Careful or you’ll start an avalanche.”

He laughs. “What’s on sale this week?”

“Sky diving.”

“We’ll take that.”

I knew they would. They always take the featured sale. The question is if they know that.

“Sign the waivers and proceed down the hall, please,” I instruct. “Exit the fourth door on the left. Next plane leaves in fifteen minutes.”

Sometimes the herd charges like bulls through the streets of San Fermin. Today they scurry behind their leader single-file like lost ants. Either way, their mouths hang open as if that frees their eyes to wander further.

And, as has happened on a few occasions, Rubin lingers.

“Freesia,” he says.

Now I lose the jump-scare game and flinch at the sound of my name. Does he remember it?

No. He reads the badge pinned to my lapel.

“Nice name. Slides off the tongue.”

“It’s the name of a flower,” I deflect.

He leans on my desk, dark hair fanning across eyes adrift somewhere between brown and gold. “You’re not a flower.”

“Excuse me?”

“Flowers are delicate.” His smirk is so crooked, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn it has a summer and winter. “Today’s thrill, jumping out of a plane, you’ve done it before.”

It’s not a question, so I don’t answer, instead staring at the broad plateaus and acute angles of his face. At the faint shadows beneath his eyes. At the slight tremble to his lips.

Do ones like him worry?

“A flower wouldn’t survive jumping out of a plane. Flowers prefer their roots in the ground.”

I return his smirk, peering over the top of my slender spectacles. “What am I, then?”

He shrugs. “First impression?”

I nearly flinch again. First impression. As if this is the first he has spoken to me. As if the other forty-two times never happened.

To him, they didn’t.

“I’d call you Falcon,” he proclaims with a knee-melting grin, pivoting even further over my desk. His bangs nearly touch my forehead. “Will you be working here tomorrow?”

“Money’s scarce for many these days. My family would disown me if I worked anything less than every hour I am awake and a few when I’m not.”

He laughs, but I’m not entirely joking.

“Can I bring you dinner here tomorrow around this same time?”

“Ruben, hurry up!” the leader calls from down the hall, and as if on a tether, he slinks away, trudging backward.

“Can I?”

I nod as he disappears, blessed with that heart-stopping grin one more time.

“Wish me luck.” His words echo, disembodied and light, strained of the fear they reveal. “This is my first time on a thrill. Hopefully I don’t epically mess up and get everyone killed.”

That’s a lie. Sky diving has been the special for over a month now. They went last week and several times before that.

But it isn’t an intentional lie. Ruben just doesn’t remember.

***

I know what Ruben is. I know why he is a blank slate every time I see him. Any expectation beyond that is foolishness.

Yet, I find it harder to sit still and wear my mask on Saturday. The appointed time draws near, and I wait, stomach full of fireworks. An hour later, I still wait. Two hours fold into four, then six, and my shift ends. A part of me lingers, wondering if I loiter a moment longer, will I see Ruben rush through those glass doors?

But they show only my tired reflection.

Sunday, I cling to a shard of hope. Monday, it is a sliver stuck within my heart, cutting deeper with each beat.

I shouldn’t let it affect me. I should know better. I know he sells his memories. It’s why the gang comes here, to get memories worth selling, dangerous experiences rich men want without the risk.

A memory copied is equal to a fake. Because buyers insist an experience must be theirs alone, sellers erase the originals. Blankers like Ruben do not remember yesterday.

***

Friday cues the return of Ruben and his crew. He’s forgotten me. Again. His amber eyes light up when they meet mine as if for the first time. There is no recognition, only interest.

My stomach is made of stones grinding against one another. Scorched by my anger, my mask falters. My smile is not as polite as is proper for a good employee.

As they purchase the featured shark encounter and charge down the hall, I tell myself this rage has no bearing. I know Ruben sells his memories. It is who and what he is. He doesn’t try to hide it. I shouldn’t expect him to remember me tomorrow, next week, or ever.

My eyes burn, and I wallow in a blink. I know why he does it. Money is hard to come by for those who don’t already have it, and memories are lucrative. My family has sold some. My brother remembered his first steps, and those went for a fortune he uses to pay for his education.

I’ve considered doing the same. The thought lurks in the crannies of my mind, searching for a piece of my childhood I could give away, I could trade to buy myself out of this life.

But the thought is not meant for the light. If I dwell on it for too long, the spotlight of my attention transforms hope into the claws of fear. What if losing just one memory would change who I am?

I can jump out of a plane or play with a lion, but I’m too much of a coward to let machines poke around in my head.

Wet warmth trails down my cheek. I open my eyes. Ruben is still here, leaning on my desk. I am a mouse, small and wishing to be invisible.

“What’s wrong?”

As if he doesn’t know. He doesn’t. But he should. He would.

I am a viper curled in a chair. I am powerful, full of fire, fast. “The way you look at me every time you come in here, I didn’t think it would mean so little to you, that you would sell the memory of asking me out.”

His face scrunches. “I’ve never sold my memories.”

I see no lie in his lax posture, in the crooked set of his shoulders, the tightness of his jaw, or the depth of his gaze. Yet I know it is a falsehood. He doesn’t. How can he not know? Did he even sell the memories of him selling his memories?

No, those don’t sell.

I exhale through my nose and feel like a dragon breathing fire. “How did you get that?” I point to a narrow, jagged scar that runs between his thumb and pinky. I know its tale. I doubt he does.

His crooked smile falls. His brows meet and form a squiggly line.

“Ruben, get over here! The transport is leaving!” the leader calls, and Ruben heeds the tether of his words.

But his gaze doesn’t leave his hand.

***

I don’t know what to think of what I did. It was very unprofessional. Ruben probably won’t remember anyway, but I will. Why does that bug me? Why does it feel wrong that I have memories of him that he doesn’t have of himself?

It’s going to be a long week if I can’t cage these wild thoughts. Already, this Saturday feels a year long.

The doors crash open. I stand to address the hooligan who dares disrespect the space of our business, ready to point at the “no running” sign. But my chair barely has time to creak in protest of my absence before the charging silhouette takes on the colors and shapes of a face I have spent too much time dwelling on.

“Ruben?”

“I ran.” Tears streak his ruddy cheeks, fallen from wide, bloodshot eyes. “It didn’t seem right, the tubes leading into my bed. I asked what they were for.”

I tilt my head. “What did they tell you?”

“Nothing that made any sense. So I tried to leave, and they wouldn’t let me.”

That really doesn’t make any sense. Memories are sold on a voluntary basis. Donors frequently chicken out. It’s illegal to forcibly take another’s possessions, even a memory. Especially a memory.

I meet his dark gaze. It glows with something I can’t define, like a dying sun, umbra bubbling over light. He leans over the counter, arms collapsed beneath him, like the cold, polished wood is all that holds him up.

“Are you saying someone has been stealing your memories, Ruben?”

Very slowly, he nods and stands straighter. My belief is a crutch, something to cling to.

“I’ve been thinking. How did I get to be as old as I am, as big as I am? People are supposed to grow, right? But as far as I know, I have no past. I only know three people: myself, the leader, and…you.”

“Me?” I squawk. “You don’t even know me.”

My words are a knife. I see that too late. He deflates a little.

I don’t have time to take it back. The doors fling open again. Ruben dives over my desk as his name reverberates off the poster-laden walls. The glass frames shake as if in fear of the anger in that bellow.

“Sir,” I start in my sternest voice. My knee nudges the trembling man at my feet beneath the counter. “I do not know what argument you may be trying to continue, but this is a serious place of business. Maintain a respectful tone and volume or I will summon the authorities.”

“I know he’s here. The tracker says so.”

My heart slides to my toes. There isn’t room to spare for it in my narrow, pointed shoes.

“Ruben, stop hiding by the lady’s feet or I will call the authorities.”

“I don’t think you will,” I counter. “Thieves, wise ones anyway, avoid those who would punish them.”

“Thieves,” he sneers. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s illegal to force someone to give up their memories. It’s a gray area even to coerce one into doing so.”

“Memories. Listen”—he leans over my counter. Huge, well-manicured hands curl around the inside edge of the desk, just above Ruben’s head—“none of those memories belonged to Ruben anyway. Every single one was a situation I contrived, like how I bought these thrills. I paid for them. They’re mine to do with what I will.”

“Not as defined by law. Ruben has rights—”

“Ruben is no one. He’s been a conduit for my business since he was an infant, and I don’t need some floozy telling me how to make my money.”

Since he was an infant. The words echo in my mind. Childhood memories can be sold as an adult, and these are expensive, but…

“Only monsters sell the memories of children,” I whisper.

“You know what, I’m gonna make all this go away.” His massive hand slides into his pocket and pulls out a clear, bubble-filled box. A memory cube. And a port to go with it.

It glows as he attaches the cord to the top and points the other end toward me. A plethora of syringes wink in the canned lighting.

On this Saturday afternoon, I do the most unprofessional thing I have ever done. I leap on a loyal client. My pencil skirt rips. One of my shoes flies and cracks a poster. As its pieces fall to the floor, I kick and scratch and roll with this monster.

When we stop, he is on top, both my wrists pinned, my hips trapped between his thighs. The needles are a hairsbreadth from my skin when breaking glass screams again. It rains around me as the monster falls to the side.

Ruben takes his place in my sightline. His own gaze is glued to his leader, the man he just hit over the head with a poster to save me. Heedless of the shards digging into his shins, Ruben sinks to his knees. He is a statue, not even breathing. I don’t look, but in my peripherals there is a lot of red and no motion.

My heart goes out to Ruben. He is a puzzle made of many missing pieces. Now the largest piece shows him killing the only person he knows. What must he think of himself?

I see the blank page filling, and I don’t like what’s written. I want to write something better.

And I can.

I grab the memory cube from the floor alongside the fallen leader. Ruben’s chocolate gaze flicks to me as the syringes leap into my skin. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would.

My thumbs run over transient buttons on the cube’s top, finding the memory I want him to have. The first time I met him. How I envied his easy-going nature, his sideways grin. How I wished my hair could be as sun-kissed.

The box clicks, containing something I wish to give Ruben, but I no longer remember what it is.

Do you know what it’s like to look at the china afterwards? When the light catches the gilded edge? You scrape off dinner, and underneath are those little painted shells. You look at that flawless, bone-white plate or the dish with the rosebuds. You look at your hand-thrown bowls with the faux cracks buried beneath the glaze. It’s all broken, and you want nothing more than to shatter it. It’s ephemeral, and it’s permanent. The scalloped edges and the machine painted leaves. Every vessel stripped down and unable to do its job. No more containment. It’s haunting. That ephemeral dish sitting so permanent. Just reminding you. Once she was here. Once you ate your meals together. You shared this table. Her feet resting in your lap. You can see her hair fall across her eyes and her smile when you catch them. And you want to destroy every reminder. You want broken glass. The metallic flakes in the glaze scattered across the floor. Nowhere to put the food. Just the debris and the wreckage. Raw glass and glittering, sharp edges. And no more reminder. Just you and the broken pieces and the floor and the empty table and the empty house. And it’s not permanent. It’s ephemeral. And it’s gone.

Ivan paced back and forth in the garden, occasionally hunching over and cursing to himself. After unleashing a final string of unfettered profanity, Ivan came to his wits and gathered his courage. He turned towards his father's tree, the one that bore golden apples said to contain divine blessings that could heal any ailment, close any wound, expunge any poison. Beneath its boughs on damp grass lay the phoenix, quite dead.

In living memory there had always been a miraculous tree in this very spot, and Ivan's family had long ago built its estate on the same hilltop. It had been the primary reason for the strange longevity and good fortune that had followed the Mikhailovs for centuries, as the family experienced no illness, mortal wounding, or deficiencies of old age. And for as long as the tree had existed, so too had the phoenix, protector of the mystical fruits and fiery avatar of the divine.

"Where is that man?" Ivan muttered. Sweating, he flicked his gaze around the courtyard, waiting for the servant to return with what Ivan had asked for. Rattling came from the garden's side entrance, and by torchlight Ivan could see the servant's outline in the dark.

"I've got one, your highness," said the servant, panting. He held up a large cage covered in black cloth. "Shall I start mixing the paste?"

"Hurry, Ruslan" said Ivan.

Ruslan went to the tree and gently lowered the cage, then slung a satchel from his waist and began to remove vials. As Ruslan busied himself, Ivan inched closer to the expired firebird and looked down in morbid curiosity. It was enormous up close--with a wingspan wider than any man was tall--and Ivan could see even more clearly the sheer variety of colors on its plumage. Every conceivable shade or tint of fire shone even in the fading twilight; the full spectrum of light's colors covered the phoenix.

Ivan reached down and gingerly pulled off a feather. Satisfied that the phoenix would not attempt to carve off his hand, he extended his hand and grabbed a small fistful. As he plucked he tried to suppress his building alarm. Once more, he recounted everything that had happened, hoping to discover that he was in a nightmare.

Earlier that evening on a stroll through the gardens Ivan had stopped before his family's tree, the setting sun painting the heavens pink and purple. Against such a backdrop, the phoenix's tree had been particularly alluring; Ivan had found himself enraptured by the firebird.

"Ruslan," Ivan had asked, "what does the firebird eat?"

Ruslan had screwed up his face in concentration. "Your highness, in all my time here I can't remember having fed the bird. I suppose it eats the fruit, your highness."

Nodding, Ivan had thought the suggestion most wise. "Fetch it some wine," he had said. "The finest vintage, such a beautiful creature deserves the best we can offer." The look on Ruslan's face had been one of perplexion, but the servant nonetheless fetched a bottle from the cellar as well as a silver bowl. Ivan had demanded to pour the wine himself and deliver it to the phoenix, and he had smiled to the bird as he walked towards the tree.

Placing the bowl before the tree, Ruslan had bowed deeply to the bird and prayed that it chose not to attack him. He had backed away, making sure to keep his face to the bird--it might have been the tree's protector, but it was also an enormous avian armed with razor-sharp beak and claws. Curious, the phoenix had flapped to the ground, glittering wings beating against the twilight air. Ivan had smiled as the bird dipped its head to drink, and the smile had disappeared as the bird squawked once, then fell to the ground.

"Ruslan," Ivan had said after a beat, "when was the last time the firebird was born?"

"One hundred and seventeen years ago, your highness," said Ruslan

"And when was it expected to be born again?"

Ruslan hesitated, "Roughly three hundred years from now, your highness." After several minutes of the prince panicking, Ruslan had suggested a course of action.

Heart pounding, Ivan snapped back to his current occupation. He had made good progress, as most of the feathers now rested on an unfurled blanket beside the cage.

"Your highness, shall I begin adhering..." Ruslan asked.

"Quickly now," said Ivan.

Ruslan tugged at the black cloth on the cage, removing it to reveal a large--but hardly phoenix-sized--bird within. The bird flapped at being awoken, but allowed the servant to remove him from his cage. Brush in one hand, bird on the other, Ruslan looked to Ivan. "This will take some time to adhere the feathers, your highness."

"It must be before sunrise," said Ivan. Looking down, he realized just how many feathers the phoenix had possessed and how difficult it would be to transfer them to the substitute bird. He gathered a handful of feathers and Ruslan dipped his brush into the cement he had just brewed.

At Ivan's feet there was a sudden flash and the smell of burnt grass. A pile of ashes remained where the firebird had been, and from the top of his family's tree Ivan heard a bird call. Ivan looked up and saw a considerably smaller phoenix in the uppermost reaches of the tree, and it glared down at Ivan. Far ahead of his master, Ruslan had already packed up most of his materials, stuffed the substitute bird back into his cage, and gathered the corners of the blanket covered in feathers.

"Your highness," said Ruslan, "we should leave before--"

"Agreed," said Ivan. The prince strode back towards the palace.

Already laden, Ruslan took off his jacket and swept up as much of the ash as he could, then hurried after his prince.

What did I do to deserve this? Nothing. I’m just doing my job. That’s all I’ve been doing for eons now. My job. You know how few Olympians actually do their jobs anymore? How would they find the time when they're so busy screwing with mortals? And, yes, I’m not on Olympus right now, but I’m still an Olympian, dammit! I fought against the Titans just as bravely as Poseidon or any of the others. Zeus got to be in charge cuz he's the oldest (I mean, he's really the youngest, but whatever, right?), and me and Poseidon drew lots for what was left. He got the Sea. I got the Underworld. That was the deal, and I, for one, intend to stick to it.

That doesn’t make me a bad guy.

It doesn’t exactly make me a good guy, either, granted. I’ve done some things I’m not exactly proud of, but who hasn’t? I mean, have you seen some of the crap Zeus has been doing? Turning into bulls and swans and sleeping with mortals? All those half-human kids he keeps leaving all over the place? But does anybody give him a hard time for it? Of course not! He’s Zeus! King of Olympus! He can do whatever he wants and people just love him more.

But, me? I’m the Lord of the Underworld. The God of Death. So, naturally, I have to be the bad guy. It’s not like I cause death. It’s not like I go around killing mortals for fun. They kill each other, or themselves, and I just pick up the pieces afterward. That’s my job. It would be the same job even if Poseidon had drawn the short straw instead of me. Then they’d be “the bad guy.” But it’s me. Go figure.

Who does this guy think he is? True, he’s bowing and calling me “my lord,” but if he were truly giving me the respect I deserved, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. He wouldn’t have the effrontery to come down here and challenge my authority. Asking me to give back his girl. What is he expecting me to say? "Oh, sure, you came all the way down here, and nobody else has ever asked politely for me to return someone who has died, so of course I’ll grant your wish, Orpheus." Just because this guy is a rich, handsome, famous king, he thinks the rules don’t apply to him.

And it’s not like I’m not sorry. I am. Nobody believes me when I say that, but it’s true. I know how she died and it’s sad. It’s tragic. It’s real unfortunate. But she’s still dead. And if the sadness of the death was a factor, half the souls down here would’ve gone back upstairs millennia ago.

Persephone is loving this. Or maybe she’s just trying to make me mad. She hates me. I don’t blame her. She was the most beautiful creature in creation and look what I did to her. I took a perfect, flawless work of art and I dragged my fingernail across it till it tore. And why? I don’t even know. I guess I’m angry. Bitter. Nobody can blame me for that. But that’s no excuse for how I’ve treated her.

I think I loved her once. If I’m even capable of that. Zeus claims to fall in love every other week with some mortal then forgets about her the minute he’s had his fun. Maybe gods just don’t know how to love. Maybe it’s better that way. Let’s face it, ninety percent of the problems in this world could be solved if we could stop screwing anything that moves for two seconds.

This character’s not gonna leave if I don’t give him something. But I can’t set a precedent for giving dead people back just because someone came down here and said pretty please. What do I do?

I go with the first idea I can think of. I have the girl sent for. I give Orpheus the layout. Even as I’m saying the words, I hate myself for saying them. I glance at Persephone. She hates me too, but what else is new?

Orpheus prostrates himself at my feet, praising me like he thinks I’m my brother, swearing to be eternally grateful for my kindness. Yeah, wait till you get back upstairs, kid. See how fast you go back on your word and go back to hating me like everybody else.

Like me.

I tell him he can walk back home with Eurydice walking right behind him. But he has to keep facing forward the whole way. If he turns around once, even just to check that she’s there, she’ll be lost to him forever. He seems to think that’ll be easy. He has no idea. The dead don’t breathe. They don’t make any sound when they walk. Sooner or later, he’ll get paranoid, think I’m tricking him (which, in a way, I guess I am) and he’ll turn around. Then she’ll be gone.

Mine forever.

I win.

Lucky me.

It sounds cruel, but it’s not. Not really. You know what would be cruel? Giving her back.

People don’t understand how death works. It’s not like Eurydice would go right back to being the way she was before. She’s no longer alive. She never will be again. Not even I can do anything about that. I can give Orpheus back her spirit, but that’s not the same thing as resurrecting her. And her spirit would be miserable, trapped in a world to which she no longer belongs.

It would be torture; worse than if she were still down here with me. I tried to explain that to him, but he was so stupid with grief that he didn’t listen.

I console myself that at least I’m giving him hope. False hope? Sure. But that’s the best I can do. Besides, you have to look at the big picture. Sooner or later, everyone ends up down here. No matter what you do, how good a life you live, how many sacrifices you make to the gods, in the end, everyone comes to Hades.

Big picture: All hope is false hope.