Chapter 1: The Truth Is Its Own Treasure
On the sunny, spring morning of our thirty-second birthday, my twin brother sent me an email with this charming subject line: Happy Cake Day! I’m as dead as a doornail. I kept munching my cornflakes. It had to be a prank. Paul had leapt from the womb like Agent 007: blond, blue-eyed, and gleefully in search of things that could be shaken and stirred. A life-long joker, he always claimed that his mischief was harmless. But this email was no joke. Because as of that morning, Thursday, May 16, 2019, my twin had been missing for a full calendar year.
A year with not one call. No emails. No texts. After our traditional birthday dinner together, Paul had engineered his disappearance without a good-bye or explanation. In the dark of night on his laptop, he erased his social media, drained his bank account, and quit our father’s law firm. Locking his bedroom door, he left our family home, snapped his fingers, and vanished. He ignored all of my increasingly desperate attempts to reach him. Police and private detectives failed to find him.
Abandoned on the first birthday of my life without him, I shouted into my unimpressed cornflakes, “Absence doesn’t always make the heart grow fonder. It makes my heart grow furious!”
Then I opened his email.
My dearest Sophie,
Thanks to compassionate doctors here in Switzerland, by the time you read this I will be gone. Please let me go. I made this choice only after months of reflection and the best medical care. For confirmation, please call the clinic. I left the number in our favorite childhood movie.
My lawyer will be in touch about my estate. You inherit all my worldly goods and one half of my financial assets. You’ll be surprised at the figure, but that’s for my lawyer to explain. You will, of course, also inherit my half of Stonehaven. I hope you will always want to live in our much-loved home. As my final, most precious gift, dear sister, I’m also giving you one last treasure trek.
To find the treasure that is your birthright, you must follow these four steps exactly:
1. In this order, you must find these five witnesses:
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- Amelia Elizabeth Fradley
- Sharon Marie Gubbels
- Jason Peter Britannicus
- Kathy McGonagall who worked at Frosty’s in the summer of 1986
- Grace
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2. You must interview each witness in person and ask them these two questions:
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- What really happened on the day of our birth, Saturday, May 16, 1987?
- What do you think should be done about it?
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3. Witnesses are always imperfect. We all bend the truth to our use. Some don’t know the truth. Some will fight to keep it from you. Once you’ve learned as much of the truth as it’s possible to learn, you may give the second half of my financial holdings to one, some, or none of these folks. Or to Save the Sheepdog. To quote Westley’s words to Buttercup, “As you wish.”
4. Be warned. For your safety, tell no one about the trek until it’s over. Don’t let our father get even a whiff of it. I will say only this: The Worthington family is not what it seems. Lies and secrets have done you an unforgivable wrong. Complete the trek. Right the wrong.
So there it is, my dearest Sophie. When I accidentally discovered the truth after Mom’s funeral, I should have told you immediately. I couldn’t. I feared it would destroy our relationship. So I disappeared. In fuller honesty, I also couldn’t let you watch me die.
All I can give you now is what I don’t have: time. Time to seek your true birthright at your own pace. It will not be the way you’ve always heard our story. It will be life-changing. But I truly believe what my diagnosis has taught me: however painful and complicated, the truth is its own treasure.
I sign myself this last time what I will always be in my heart,
Your loving brother,
Paul
Shaking hands knocked cornflakes into my lap. Grabbing a towel, I tried to soak milk from my lovely mother’s ancient velour tracksuit that I wore as pajamas. Then I gave up and grabbed my phone. For a year, my calls had gone to voicemail. Today, I longed to hear Paul declare, “Hey, Soul Sister, it’s Cake Day and you’ve been sweetly punked!” Instead I heard: “This number is no longer in service.”
Flinging my cereal bowl at the sink, I called my brat-shit brother unladylike names.
It was so bloody typical of Paul to drop a bomb and then take no responsibility for its explosion. Bad enough to declare his death on our birthday, but to claim that family lies had done me an “unforgiveable wrong” and then run away without explanation—that was cowardly. As for sending me on yet another of his ridiculous treasure treks, well, when I got my hands on that bossy, manipulative, little piece of—
I’m a redhead. For me, anxiety presents as anger. It’s easier to get angry than to be frightened, hurt, or sad. So I get angry far more often than is good for me, or for those around me. To help me stay calm, I’ve been trying to learn mindfulness techniques. Trying is the operative word. Most of the time, anger rules this redhead’s not-exactly-love language. Mindfulness does some good, some of the time.
I took three deep breaths and focused on my body in the moment. Felt the wooden chair under my hips. Found my hands clenched under the kitchen table and shook them loose. Dropped my arms onto the dancing cherries of my mother’s favorite tablecloth. Knowing I needed to sit with Paul’s email to prevent any impulsive reactions, I exhaled slowly but couldn’t calm down. That bloody email was too damn much déjà vu for me.
Sophie’s Treasure Trek was Paul’s favorite running joke, one he’d been running since we were nine. Every few months, he’d sneak into my room at night and steal my glasses. Clues left on yellow sticky notes would send me trekking all over the house, in search of the glasses I needed to read said notes. Paul found my squinting and swearing hilarious. I will concede that his clues and hiding spots became truly ingenious as he got older. Stonehaven, our three-story, century home in Madison, Wisconsin, offers endless nooks and crannies for hiding all manner of secrets.
Here’s one of mine: On every day of my life, I have both adored my twin and wanted to shove him into the root cellar, lock it, stomp across Lakeland Avenue, and toss the key into Lake Monoma. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. I especially love our twinship. It’s always been so comforting to know that my heart spent its first nine months beating next to his. But if I’m telling the full truth here—and I’ve promised myself to do my best to do exactly that—Paul proved a hard act to follow.
We’re fraternal twins, far from identical. I’m the more serious one, the one our lovely mother called, “the born teacher.” That was her polite way of saying I’m the nerdy girl who makes lists for everything and overthinks socks. My carefree twin zipped through life, enjoying it, while I plodded along behind, enjoying him. I was his first audience, but not his only fan. Declaring that the only worthwhile goal in life was to make people laugh, Paul joined our high school’s improv team. He kept performing throughout college, then joined an adult troupe, playing gigs throughout Wisconsin. While our lovely mother attended every show, our father merely grunted, “The boy should save his tomfoolery for the stage.”
For once, Marcus Worthington had a point. When Paul jumped out of our grandmother’s eightieth birthday cake, he landed on top of her and broke her arm. When he dyed our English sheepdog orange for Halloween, poor Yeti tried to lick herself clean and nearly died. That snark in his final email about “Save the Sheepdog” was pure Paul. Sometimes in dubious taste, sometimes so juvenile.
As always, the only way to find out if my brother was punking me was to play along. With my breathing restored, I stood up, muttering denial.
“What kind of person hides end-of-life information in a kids’ movie?”
Even as I forced my bare feet down the cold, granite hall to Stonehaven’s library, I knew the answer. Paul was exactly that kind of person, and his first clue was a dead giveaway. The phrasing of that line made me squirm, but Paul would’ve loved it.
I pulled The Care Bears Movie video from the shelf, then hesitated.
It’s a tale about lovable twin bears helping two orphans find new parents. The movie debuted in 1985, two years before our birth, and we watched it so often we could recite it. Now it held a nostalgic place of honor on the top shelf, flanked by two stuffed bears. It tells you all you need to know about our lovely mother that she gave me the blue, rambunctious boy bear named Baby Tugs and gave Paul the pink bear, a shy girl named Baby Hugs. To this day, I think my stuffy father believes that hugging a pink stuffie warped his son’s sexuality.
Ordering myself to stop stalling, I yanked the video case open. A yellow sticky note popped up. Of course it did. It held a phone number and two words: Dr. Froehlich.
My trembling fingers misdialed twice. When a receptionist answered in German—“Guten tag. Friedensklinik.”—I hesitated, then asked for the doctor in English. Thankfully, they speak multiple languages in Switzerland.
“I was expecting your call, Ms. Worthington.” Dr. Froehlich’s solemn tone told me everything I didn’t want to hear. “I’ve been asked to confirm that your brother ended his life here at Peace Clinic this morning.”
I reached for the library desk, missed, and dropped to the floor. “But…but… I’m sorry, I don’t know what to say. It’s such a shock.”
“I had great respect for Paul,” the doctor continued. “Despite his pain, he faced death with abundant good humor. He always made the staff and patients laugh. We will miss him.”
This raised many questions, but I could make my tongue ask only one. “What pain? I’m sorry, I didn’t even know he was ill.”
Dr. Froehlich paused. “Your brother had a brain tumor. Aggressive and inoperable. It made him progressively weaker over time. He asked me to tell you that this kind of tumor is not hereditary. You do not need to fear developing one.”
“I see. Well, what about…um… Did he make…arrangements?”
“Yes. Mr. Worthington chose to be cremated here but arranged for his ashes be interred in the family vault. He also left a box of personal belongings for you. I will have both packages sent to you today.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it. May I ask you…did he suffer?”
“Paul did not want to be over-medicated. Accordingly, he experienced debilitating headaches. But did he suffer at the end? No. Our procedures are painless.”
“I hope he wasn’t alone at the end? Did he have someone with him?”
“As per Paul’s wishes, you will receive an email with his death certificate attached. But now I have patients waiting. My condolences, Ms. Worthington.” He hung up.
I’m still ashamed of what I yelled up at two sweet twin bears: “Damn his selfish hide! Of course he dies the middle of a school week. Such a jerk!”
Thankfully, at that point, good-teacher autopilot kicked in. I phoned my school’s attendance line and left a message saying that my brother had passed, lesson plans sat on my desk, and I’d send more by the day’s end. When I hung up, fear fumbled my phone. With the smack I knew only too well of something breakable hitting Wisconsin Red Granite, the screen cracked.
I let loose another string of words that my prissy stepmother always insists should never exit a lady’s mouth. But Enid is more of a bitch than any dog I’ve ever met, so I ignore her at all times on all things.
When I stopped swearing, when I confirmed that my phone wasn’t as dead as a doornail, when I convinced myself that my students would be well cared for, then, and only then, the anger drained from my body. I crumpled.
I made it as far as the living room, then collapsed in a weeping wreck on the couch.
I don’t how long I cried. I read and re-read Paul’s email, weeping anew each time. I wandered around the house, seeing Paul in every room. Holding my hand as we toddled up the tall front stairs. Roaring with joy on the long-ago Christmas morning when he opened his How to Be a Magician kit. All dressed up and blowing out our sweet sixteen candles in the dining room. Taking prom and graduation photos in front of the stone fireplace in the foyer. Opening our front door, taking me in his arms, and holding me up as he said the unthinkable, that our lovely mother had died. Paul and I and Stonehaven—we were inextricable. He couldn’t possibly be gone.
I made some lunch, but it had no taste. So I ate a tub of Rocky Road.
On that sugar high, I prepared and emailed a week of lesson plans. Kindergarten kids don’t handle change well; I could at least keep their routine intact. I longed to jump in my car, drive to my school, and hug each one of my tiny charges tight, but I knew that would only confuse them.
In a better choice, I began listing people to notify. Beyond our family connections, Paul had a small army of friends. He made friends easily and everywhere, from high school to law school, from tennis to improv. To keep panic at bay, I created subheadings: Friends, Neighbors, Colleagues, Past Lovers, and Miscellaneous. Minutes later, barely begun, weeping and hyperventilating, I had to stop.
So many names. So many times to repeat the same sad news. My mother and I had done this together when my grandmother died. Paul and I had shared the burden when our lovely mother died. Now I would have to do it alone. And the first person on my list was someone I couldn’t avoid calling any longer.
But just as I lifted my finger over his number, I heard a knock on the door. Not the front door, the back door. The one no one ever used.
If I ignored it, I really would have to call my father, so I headed to the back hall. Pulling the heavy door open, I did my level best to smile but had to drop my gaze. In front of me sat a man in a wheelchair. Curly black hair. Snapping green eyes. An honest, open smile. I gasped, and not just at the surprise of his chair. I might as well say it: he was quite simply the most outrageously attractive man I had ever seen.
But wait, there’s more. There’s always more. When his eyes smiled into mine, I breathed freely and deeply for the first time in years. My anger and anxiety melted away. As clichéd, corny, and cringey as it sounds, it’s also absolutely true. I swear I heard angels singing.
I shook my head and shut it down. That’s a song I’ll never trust again.
Chapter 2: From Care Bears to Wild Things
My visitor peeled off a blue leather glove and offered me his hand. “Ms. Sophie Amelia Worthington?”
I took his hand and nodded. Tried to look unimpressed and certainly failed.
“Declan Magee. I’m Paul’s lawyer. I understand you’re expecting me?”
I stood stock still. Trying unsuccessfully to unlock my eyes from his.
“My condolences on the death of your brother. May I come in?”
“Yes, okay.” I pulled the door wide. “I’m sorry. It’s a difficult day.”
“I understand. I hope to answer at least some of your questions.”
As Declan wheeled into the hall, I had only just enough room to close the door. I had to flatten myself along the wall, then slide in front of him to lead the way. My mind raced ahead of me. His wheelchair explained the back door. Stonehaven has seven stone steps at its leaded-glass front door. Designed by my grandmother, one of Wisconsin’s first woman architects and protégée of Frank Lloyd Wright, it was built in 1919, back when everyone assumed visitors could walk. In no more than a lucky accident, the driveway that sloped along the house to our back door opened at ground level.
This raised a question I’d never asked: was my home wheelchair-accessible
I had no bloody idea. I knew only that the cellar stairs, the hidden, drop-down staircase to the attic, and the sweeping, oaken front stairs to the second floor were obviously inaccessible.
Too bad. This spicy-hot man will never see my bedroom.
As that line flew through my head, my face flamed. Sex with a stranger is unwise at any time, but it’s a downright disturbing desire on the day of your brother’s demise. Another line Paul would have loved.
Forcing my attention back to Stonehaven’s open Arts and Crafts floorplan, I concluded that my guest could enter the kitchen. Sprinting ahead, I pulled a chair aside to create a gap so that Declan could slide under the kitchen table. So far, so good.
Needing a moment to breathe, I excused myself. Racing upstairs, my mirror confirmed the worst. My immaculate visitor had just met a bedraggled, barefoot wench with unbrushed hair and the world’s reddest blue eyes. This silly strumpet had opened her door to a strange man wearing ancient, ugly pajamas. Worst of all, I’d just given Declan a nose-to-crotch close-up of the milk stains in the lap of my lovely mother’s purple velour tracksuit.
I scolded the mirror: “So what? It’s not as if you want to encourage him.”
After a splash of cold water, a tussle with a brush, and a quick change into shoes and something clean that was neither velour nor purple, I returned to my guest and offered to make tea.
“Thanks, that’d be great,” Declan replied. “I apologize for showing up unannounced, but that’s as Paul instructed: to arrive at 4:30 p.m. without calling first. So here I am.”
While waiting for the water to boil, I kept an eye on Declan in the mirrored backsplash. Mindfulness teaches us to be present in the moment, and I felt most appreciatively present as I watched him.
Declan pulled off his denim jacket to reveal a soft, gray cashmere sweater that accentuated the strength and tone of his upper body. Twisting around to reach the knapsack on the back of his chair, he pulled out a smart leather briefcase. Removing two file folders, he dropped his gloves into the case, snapped it shut, and set it on the floor. Momentarily stumped by the jumbled kitchen table, he carefully relocated the duckies I’d cut out of yellow felt for my kindergarten class and set the folders in front of him.
As I kept busy, he casually reached for the scissors, placed the pattern on a piece of felt, and began expertly cutting it out. When I brought the tea tray over, five new yellow duckies sat in a row.
“So, you’re both a lawyer and a crafty guy. I guess they do go together.”
“Yep. My mom taught first grade.” He grinned. “I also mix a mean playdough.”
I smiled for the first time that day.
Declan set the last duckie down. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I nearly dropped the teapot. “I’m sorry—we’ve met?”
“Yes. I was in Boy Scouts with Paul. Then we went to law school together. I’ve met you and your family a few times. But it was years ago. No worries if you don’t remember.”
It was inexcusably rude, but it flew from my mouth before I could stop it: “Paul didn’t have a childhood friend in a wheelchair. I’d have remembered that.”
Declan nodded. “I got my chair two years ago. Gifted me by a drunk driver.”
“I’m sorry. For my thoughtless comment. And for the accident. I’m sorry for both.”
I sat down. Poured tea. Pushed spoon, milk, and sugar in his direction. I took several sips, unsure how to begin. Worried that Declan might have already concluded that Paul got all the charm and all the brains in the family, I decided no way out but through.
“So, what have you come to tell me, Mr. Magee?”
“Please, just Declan. It’s all here in these file folders. We each have a copy.”
I opened mine and found two photos. The first, a pair of laughing Boy Scouts—one my brother, the other, less clearly, Declan. He was pulling his face away as Paul attempted to jam a roasted marshmallow into his mouth. The second, taken outside Wisconsin-Madison Law School—two graduates grinning in caps and gowns.
Beneath the photos sat a handwritten note that could only have come from my brother.
Hi Sissy-Wissy,
Not sure if you remember my old buddy Declan? (He certainly remembers you, lol.)
I’ve put him on retainer. This allows him to keep his job and assist you with the trek. I trust him completely, so don’t be too hard on the poor guy. He’s bound by friendship and lawyer-client privilege, so there are things he can’t reveal until my instructions permit. I know he’ll share all he legally and morally can, and I highly recommend you accept his help. It’s a comfort to know you’ll have company.
Let the wild rumpus begin!
Love you lots,
Paul
I had to smile at the closing line, one Paul loved. It’s another blast from the past, thanks to our lovely mother, who never missed a bedtime story. Paul’s favorite was Where the Wild Things Are, by Maurice Sendak. Like Max, a mischievous boy in a wolf costume, Paul was frequently sent to bed without supper by his father. And when Max became King of the Wild Things, I’m sure Paul imagined himself with all the power a powerless little boy could desire.
From Care Bears to Wild Things, every memory hurt. I brushed more tears from my eyes and turned the page to find Paul’s email.
“So, does this mean you already know about my brother’s mysterious last gift?”
Declan nodded. “I know only a little more than you. I don’t know how to solve it.”
“Do you know who the five witnesses are? Or how to find them?”
Declan hesitated. “I think it might be best if you read the whole file first.”
On embossed letterhead, the next page declared, Last Will and Testament of Paul Stobie Worthington. I clenched my fists and began reading.
At the clause detailing his estate, I gasped. Paul’s financial assets totaled over two million dollars.
“But that’s impossible! Where does all this money come from? Paul wasn’t even a partner at his law firm. We received an inheritance from our grandmother, but nothing like this.”
Declan took stock of my face before he answered. “You’re about to get another shock, but hopefully not a bad one. Turn the page.”
—
Author’s Statement
When I began writing HOW TO FAIL AT MINDFULNESS, MURDER, AND MATCHMAKING, I set three over-arching goals, aspirations both personal and political, in order to explore my history and honour my disabled community.
First, as an adoptee, I wanted to craft an accessible novel about shocking family secrets that reconfigure identity and belonging. I longed to create a human treasure hunt to explore my own experiences—to share what it has meant to me to discover a half-brother only one week my junior and a disabled half-sister in a long-term care facility. At the same time, setting my novel in my adult son’s home in Madison, Wisconsin, and consulting him about the novel has helped me strengthen my sense of family belonging.
Second, having published three literary novels and forty essays, I wanted try my dark-and-funny style in a genre I’d never attempted before. Choosing upmarket romantic mystery, I gave Sophie Worthington all of my least loveable traits: She’s a redheaded mess, hot-tempered, sarcastic, grudge-holding, and self-sabotaging. She’s a woman who’s been cruelly betrayed. Although she fails spectacularly at both revenge and the calming practice of mindfulness, I’m hoping readers will still root for her happiness.
Lastly, as a disabled woman indulging in wish-fulfilment, I longed to create a very hot lawyer in a wheelchair. Declan Magee looks like my high-school crush and moves through the world with my lived experience as an ambulatory wheelchair-user. I wanted newly disabled Declan be both a desirable man and someone who embodies the realistic, warts-and-all, often angry disability representation too often missing in all forms of fiction. I hope that Declan’s starting-from-scratch understanding of Disability Justice will encourage readers to take that journey with him.
In structuring my novel, I thoroughly enjoyed using the forced proximity of fast-paced, high-stakes mystery-solving to give strangers a second chance at love. When Sophie’s twin brother bequeaths her a treasure trek, instructing her to find five witnesses who will reveal her birthright, he also sends his lawyer to help her. Sophie and Declan discover clues hidden in the Worthingtons’ family home, witnesses lie and contradict each other, one witness is murdered, and the two mismatched sleuths slowly warm to each other.
When they solve the trek, Sophie expects to find jokester Paul alive and well. Instead, she finds Grace, Paul’s real twin. Sophie learns that she is her father’s daughter but not her beloved mother’s child. After fathering two daughters mere days apart, when Grace was born with osteogenesis imperfecta, Sophie’s father switched the girls, then hid his disabled daughter in a care home. The generational lies and secrets of the Worthington family, fueled by Wisconsin’s dark past as a home of Nazi eugenics, have the power to destroy them all. Instead, Sophie chooses to accept her reconfigured family and begin a relationship with Declan.
I like to think that HOW TO FAIL AT MINDFULNESS, MURDER, AND MATCHMAKING moves through failures both historic and personal to affirm that the complicated diversity of love is a mystery worth solving.
Dorothy Ellen Palmer is an award-winning, disabled, senior writer and accessibility activist. She has published three novels with disabled protagonists, an adoption-disability memoir, two picture books about twins on mobility scooters, and forty works of fiction and nonfiction in literary and disability journals. Her awards include the 2020 Helen Henderson Award for Disability Journalism and the 2025 Jean Throop Award for Children’s Literature. Dorothy has served on the Accessibility Advisory Board of the Festival of Literary Diversity and The Disability Justice Network of Ontario. She lives in Burlington, Ontario, with her mobility scooter, Rosie.
Embark, Issue 25, October 2026
