Just My Luck Adele Parks (if you liked this book txt) 📖

Jake and the kids have been at the party site all day. Emily keeps sending me photos of the props and rides arriving and being unloaded from huge vans and lorries. Her photos are pretty good, and I want to show that I’m interested so I reply with a series of exuberant messages. Awesome!! Amazing! Wow! And a string of overly jolly emojis. Sometimes I have to admit emojis are a godsend—they save us from ever having to articulate anything tricky. Emily has yet another new phone, the second in as many weeks. She told us that she dropped her first one when she was trying to carry a takeaway coffee and Snapchat someone at the same time. “Why weren’t you more careful?” I grumbled when she finally admitted this to be the case. I could hear my father’s voice singing in my head, easy come, easy go, a reprimand that carried such force when I was a child. I had instinctively known that nothing had come easy to my parents, who worked long hours at hard jobs to provide for me and my sister.

“I just dropped it, Mum. I didn’t do it on purpose,” Emily muttered sulkily. “What do you want me to do—chain it to me?”

“Well, you could buy a case,” I suggested. She seemed okay with that suggestion. It gave her something else to buy online. She has spent a lot of time online buying stuff. I can’t bring myself to tell her off about that. What else is she supposed to do if she’s not at school and isn’t seeing her friends or boyfriend anymore? Until recently Emily defied the stereotype of a teen. She served on the school student council for three years, she was an active member of the debating society, she sang in the school choir, and last year she was the only student in her year to receive the Gold Award of Leadership Through Service at school. It was a scheme that a keen member of staff set up, which monitored just about everything the kids did: attendance, participation in sport and clubs, volunteering work, etc. It was pretty much the most hated thing in Year 9 because they all felt their every moment was clocked-in and clocked-out. That said, Emily did everything that was required. Never put a foot wrong. I remember at the time Ridley and Megan teased her, saying she had an unhealthy respect for rules considering she’s a teenager. They, and a handful of others, got the silver award. Getting up on a Sunday morning to coach lower school hockey games was the deal breaker. I was so proud of her enthusiasm and her community spirit.

She doesn’t seem interested in anything other than shopping now.

I am not a big shopper so when I was asked to leave work, I had worried that I would be bored, but in fact as one door closes, another opens. As Gillian told us to expect, we are now receiving a lot of letters requesting charitable donations or asking if we are interested in investing in different ventures, some no doubt real, others appearing deeply suspicious. We are not unlisted. A fact that we had entirely forgotten because that decision was made when God was a boy, and no one had ever really heard of data protection, privacy issues, etc. Certainly, none of us could have imagined a scenario whereby people we didn’t already know might want to contact us. Within just hours of the public announcement of the win, we began to understand what that historic decision meant. The phone started to ring nonstop. Most of the calls were from family, friends, neighbors and some vaguer acquaintances congratulating us on our luck; others were from complete strangers wanting to help us spend our cash. We unplugged the landline pretty sharpish and I put the handset in a cupboard. If only everything could be cleared away so easily. As we didn’t opt out of the telephone directory, this doesn’t just mean people could call us. It also apparently means that our address is easily tracked down online. We are now inundated with letters that Jake scathingly refers to as begging letters.

“They are not begging letters.”

“Right, some of them are scams.”

“They are just overtures from strangers.”

“And I suppose strangers are just friends you haven’t yet met?” he says with something that seems close to a sneer.

“Maybe,” I mumble sulkily.

“Is there a single letter that doesn’t ask for money?”

“Well, no.” He makes a sound of victory, confident that he’s proven his point. “But most of them are asking for money on other people’s behalf. It’s actually fascinating to see the breadth of charities and enterprises that exist in order to make the world a better place. If you watch the news or go online, it’s easy to imagine the world is going to hell in a handcart, but reading through these charity requests reminds me that there are countless good people out there trying to make things better, not just for themselves, but more often than not, for others. There are a number of interesting projects that—” I looked up and noticed he’d left the room. The kids seemed embarrassed for me.

Unfortunately, the flip side of beginning to comprehend how many charities and aid projects there are in the world is that it drives home the fact that there are endless people who are suffering and in need of help. I sit at the kitchen table and let my fingers trail over the words that have been sent my way. Most of them are sprawled across printed letters, or even professional-looking pamphlets and brochures, but some have been handwritten. Florid, loopy requests made in ink; fast, urgent pleas in pencil, even some desperate, rudimentary ones in crayon. They all say the same. Help me.

I’m not sure how I will decide which causes to support.

...We work in twenty-two countries, helping communities to lift themselves out of poverty through education, training and