I cried at my daughter’s grave every Sunday for a month before Otis, the cemetery groundskeeper, finally stopped pretending he didn’t see me.
That fourth Sunday, I brought white roses again because the florist had called them “proper.” Maya would have made a face at that.
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My seventeen-year-old daughter liked yellow daisies, chipped nail polish, and jeans with paint on the knees.
I cried at my daughter’s grave every Sunday.
But Maya was gone before I could bring her daisies on some ordinary birthday. Gone before graduation or the art scholarship letter. And gone before I could take back the last thing I said to her.
That night, she’d asked me to pick her up because she was tired and scared of driving in the rain.
I’d been tired of standing between her and Jordan.
“Ask your father,” I’d said. “I’m done being the referee tonight. You two need to sort yourselves out.”
Two hours later, the police knocked on our door.