No one could.
And then Mother’s Day came, just like a sudden storm I wasn’t prepared for.
Each year, Randy would make me breakfast himself. He would usually make dry cereal, leave milk everywhere, and get flowers from outside with soil still clinging to the roots.
On that day, I was alone in the living room with Randy’s dinosaur blanket in my lap, while an empty cereal bowl sat unused on the coffee table.
It was too quiet inside the house.
It was around nine when the doorbell sounded.
I did not answer it because I did not want a condolence card or anyone to look at me with pity.
There were more rings, followed by loud banging a few seconds later.
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It took all I had to finally make my way to the door, prepared to deal with anyone who needed something.
But when I opened it, a little girl stood holding onto Randy’s backpack as tight as she could.
