Less than a year after my wife's funeral, I was confronted with the most terrible realities of being a widower with five children: the relentless stream of paperwork from school.
Field-trip permission slips, PTA election ballots, book order forms, sports sign-ups, medical forms, and innumerable progress reports—an onslaught courtesy of the educational bureaucracy. This "literature" had to be read, signed, or discarded, but dealt with daily.
One day, my eight-year-old daughter Rachel was helping me complete five emergency treatment forms. She filled in the generic information (name, address, phone), and I added the rest (insurance, doctor, signature). After signing, I checked for accuracy. That's when I noticed: in the slot beside "Mother's Business Phone," Rachel had written on every form: "1-800-HEAVEN."