“Sign it,” I whisper, handing Pops a pen, “If you want to.” Pain burns behind my eyes and answering tears track down Pops cheeks. I try to contort my mouth into a sympathetic smile but it’s impossible. This situation is impossible and even though Pops can’t escape the reality of his situation he shouldn’t have an order of cremation shoved under his nose. What was Betsy thinking making me do this?
What was I thinking when I agreed? “You don’t have to do this.”
From my WIP, Chasing Betsy. Fiction.