The List

30-year-old Callie Lum tried to sit up in bed on April 17, her limbs mushy and uncooperative. She marked Blah Blah Blah day the same way each year–by ignoring it. Feigned ignorance made it easier for the overwhelmed, caffeine-fueled woman to cope. 

Years of nagging from well-intentioned friends and family birthed a crumpled list, which Callie kept locked in a drawer. It was a handwritten litany of things she’d never do—call her mother. Be positive. And her favorite: Get a real job

Advice was a recipe she never requested–or intended to cook.  The list wasn’t just a to-do list–it was her survival script. 

When she tugged the drawer open that day, it wasn’t there. Her eyes, bloodshot from lack of sleep, scanned the room, half-expecting it to leap out at her. 

And found it pinned on the refrigerator door. Like it belonged there.  By a magnet she didn’t own—or recognize. The ink on it was fresher. The handwriting on it seemed to be hers…but more polished, with a crossed-out line, like a task had been completed. 

This was a to-do list that everyone loved–tasks disappeared from it daily, whether Callie did them or not. Then, the calls. She heard her mother’s voice, crisp and matriarchal: “Next.”

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