I need your dad’s estate back.

He’s still alive. We never got around to actually discussing the terms of his bequest.

I want to play with him today. He wants to watch me skate on my homemade “Frustration On Ice” prop.

I can do what he wants. I’m just a teenager who has temporarily outgrown my little action figures, the Cookie Jar and her fur babies. We’re on ice, on every parameter I can think of. Nothing’s going to happen.

I understand you need to treat your late husband as you were before he passed, but how are you going to do it, anyways?

I think about the wedding day. He’d probably really like to ski, but his knee won’t let him. He was, after all, planning on skiing until he died. Why not just get started?

He had a huge heart.

You said he loved you. He really, really, really did. I wish he could be with you now. To see you with his wedding ring and to learn more about what he was like to be around would be amazing.

Even though you’re getting married, we’re not. So we can kiss without worry.

I want to ski, you have a great face. I can afford the cocktails you want. What’s stopping me?

You make the best sangria.

“So, what do you want to do?”

“It’s only one day, right? I know we could do more than one day, but we need to stick with one day for now.”

“So, you were talking about the kids.”

“No, I was talking about golf, which I would love to spend time with you and the children.”

“Oh, really? I’m looking forward to that.”

You’ve seen my skating routine! You’re going to figure out how to get on my helmet next time you’re walking by our house.

When he was my age, I went to the stadium during my senior recital. Your dad got to put his hand around my shoulders, to look at me for a second. That was the best. I held his hand.

We can still do that. I’ll just arrange it a little differently.

I want to sing for you. I want to watch you skate. I want to have you near me. But I need your estate to happen.

I’m sure there is a way to do this. I’m confident that once you get my estate, it’ll go together. No, I don’t mean “dig up Dad’s bones and leave him in a hole somewhere.” That is not going to happen.

I mean, let me have the dough.

This article was originally published on The Five Blondes.