I sit in my car outside the post office and stare down at the papers in my hand, fighting back the hot tears threatening to spill down my cheeks.  The package I had to pick up hadn’t been a package at all.  It was a registered letter from my father’s lawyer.

My dad had died almost three months ago, and I knew there was a bit of an inheritance coming, but since I lived so far away, my uncle was the executor of the will, and I hadn’t asked about it at all.  How did Dad even have that much money in the first place?  I knew he was comfortable, but I never dreamed he’d had this kind of wealth.  After reading over the paperwork for a third time, I realize just what this all means.  I am now the proud owner of my father’s lush lakeside home, and more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

And if that weren’t enough, my father had stipulated that every penny left to me was to go into a private account, under my name only, and that Scott was to have no access to it.  I knew that Dad had never been a huge fan of my husband, but for him to go to this extreme was truly shocking.  He’d even written a little message for me into the will saying, “Holly, you are the one thing in my life I’m proudest of.  You need to be proud of you too.  Don’t ever settle for anything less than what you deserve.”

My heart aches, and I wipe away a stray tear.  I miss him so much.  Many times over the years, Dad had talked about me settling into my life.  He would ask me over and over if I was working on any new writing projects, but every time, my response was always the same.  “Who has time to write?”  That used to bother him, but he had always been a believer in allowing me to make my own mistakes, so he never said much more about it.

Was he right?  Am I settling for this life?  Is there more out there for me?  I know that there are tons of opportunity for greatness in this world, but I’m a thirty-five-year-old woman, carrying around a few extra pounds, working the only job I’ve ever had, and I’ve only ever been with one man.  What is out there for someone like me?

As a teenager, my passion had always been writing.  There are boxes stacked on top of boxes in my father’s attic, all filled with scribbled notebooks full of short stories and even a couple of full length novels that I had written throughout the years.  I had always wanted to become a writer.  It’s why I went to university in the first place.  A degree in English was sure to help me make my dream come true.

But since I’d been with Scott, I don’t think I’ve written out more than a simple grocery list.  There’s just no time.  I have a job where I work twelve hour shifts, a husband, and a house to take care of.  By the time I get the chance to sit down at night, I can’t even read a book, let alone write one.  I’m tired all the time.

I’d always figured it was just what happens when you grow up.  You outgrow your unreachable dreams, and you start working on completely unrelated goals that help you live the best life you can manage.  What kind of career is writing anyways?  The chances of me getting published are slim to none.  It had been a naïve dream, for a naïve girl.  As a woman, though, looking back, I’m starting to wonder if that naïve girl would be happy with what I’ve let her life become.