My mother never ate onions. She never wore pink or rode elephants, either. Mom had a whole rulebook of what she would and would not do, a long list of phobias that she lived by. I told my father that I would carry on her list. After the funeral, Dad came by to get the big leather-bound journal. He flipped through it and tears ran down his face. I didn't understand – the book was a source of comfort to me. Those yeas and nays were my mother's life in writing.

“Dad?”

He handed me the book, thumb holding down page 62.

Rule 425: Never have your picture taken.
Rule 426: Never go near a microwave.
Rule 427: Never eat anything orange.

“You can't let fear rule your life, kid.”