Sarah nodded. “I think he remembered everything.”
Under the yarn was a card.
“He remembered that?”
“Mom, it’s not done yet.
Don’t laugh. Sarah says the horn is hardest. Ms. Bell said there wasn’t time before Mother’s Day.
I love you more than cereal breakfast.
Love, Randy.”
A sound left me before I could stop it.
Sarah began crying too.
“Mom, it’s not done yet.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her sleeve across her nose again. “There’s more in there.”
I found a crumpled sheet of paper folded small, like Randy had tried to hide it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I ruined the Mother’s Day wall. I know you’re sick and tired and I made more trouble.
But I promise I’m not bad.
Love, Randy.”
I found a crumpled sheet of paper.
Under it was a folded drawing, the paint spill marked in purple crayon.
For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.
Then they did.
***
“What’s this?” I asked.
Sarah stared down at her sneakers.
“Sarah. Honey?”
“Ms. Bell made him write it.”
“When?”
She looked at the backpack. “Right before.”
The words didn’t make sense.
My skin went cold. “Right before what?”
Her eyes filled so fast it looked painful.
“Right before he fell.”
The kitchen went silent.
“Tell me,” I said, though part of me wanted to cover my ears.
“He was sitting at the back table,” she whispered. “Ms. Bell gave him the paper and told him to write sorry for ruining the Mother’s Day wall. But he didn’t ruin it. Tyler did.”
“Right before what?”
“Tyler?”
Sarah nodded. “He spilled paint on some cards, and one ripped. Randy only had glue on his hands because he was helping me.”
I looked at the apology note again. The letters were uneven. Some words were darker, like he had pressed too hard.
“He kept saying, ‘My mom knows I don’t lie,’” Sarah said. “But Ms. Bell said sometimes good kids still disappoint their mothers.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
My son had died thinking I might believe he was bad.
“My mom knows I don’t lie.”
“Then what happened?” I whispered.
Sarah pressed her little fist to the middle of her chest.
“He said, ‘Sarah, it’s doing the squished thing again.’”
I gripped the chair. “Again?”
She nodded, crying now. “He told me before, but he said not to tell you because you had the flu.”
My knees nearly gave out.
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