“You don’t have to.”
“I barely knew her.”
“I know.”
Her hand tightened around mine.
“I miss her, but I also miss somebody who never existed.”
I understood exactly what she meant.
“You miss the mother you should have had.”
Taryn nodded.
“Is that stupid?”
“No.”
Her face crumpled again.
“You can grieve the woman who died and the mother you needed when you were six. They’re not exactly the same person.”
Brielle moved beside us and took her sister’s other hand.
That’s how we stayed while the coffin was lowered.
By late summer, our house was full of boxes.
College had seemed distant for years until suddenly my dining room was covered in chargers, bedding, paperwork, medication lists, wheelchair repair kits, and enough snacks to survive a minor natural disaster.
Brielle insisted she needed twelve pairs of shoes.
Taryn asked why someone who used a wheelchair needed twelve pairs of shoes.
