That had ended years ago.
I cried because my daughters had now lost their mother twice.
Once when they were six and she chose to leave.
And again at eighteen, just after they had finally been given enough of her back to understand what they’d missed.
The funeral was six days later.
I went because the girls asked me to.
People I didn’t know hugged them and told them stories about Colette’s life during the years we hadn’t seen her.
One woman told Brielle, “Your mother talked about you girls all the time.”
Brielle waited until she walked away.
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“You don’t have to decide what it makes you feel.”
At the cemetery, Taryn broke down.
She folded forward in her chair, crying so hard she could barely breathe.
I crouched beside her.
“I don’t even know why I’m crying,” she said.
