Thanksgivings had become harder since Paul and Connie died. I did my best to join Ma, Dad, and Cassie in Florida, but financial realities often got in the way. And when I did, I did my best to keep myself upbeat for Cassie. It was hardest on her. But alone in my house on Thanksgiving with only a deli-prepared turkey dinner as comfort, I was left to introspective thoughts.
I thought about the future, and how it seemed too short. I was closer to forty than thirty, and had no prospects for a real relationship. The possibility of having children seemed slim at best. The possibility of ending up dead in some back alley, a victim of an investigation gone wrong, grew every week.
Not for the first time, I thought about giving up the business, but how was I to transition from a paranormal investigator to something else. I had tried regular detective agencies, and they hadn’t worked. And after running my own business, I didn’t relish the prospect of working for anyone again.
But I should do something with my future, otherwise what was there to give thanks about?
“Happy Thanksgiving, Matt,” I raised a glass of milk to myself, noting how quickly the sound died in the empty house.