The handwritten note crumples underneath my fingers, and I toss it into the trash before walking over to the small fountain my dad installed. My mom has had it fixed a few times over the years, but she gave up on it a while back, so I took over the responsibility. The fountain located in a corner of our yard was my dad’s labor of love because it broke down more often than it worked. So much so, it became a running joke between our parents, with my mom threatening to get rid of it and my dad convincing her not to.
