I stopped in the doorway.
“Eli?”
He looked up.
His eyes were swollen.
“I have to tell you something.”
He reached inside his backpack and pulled out an envelope.
My name wasn’t on it.
His was.
In Maya’s handwriting.
She had given it to him three days before she died.
I hadn’t known.
Neither had their father.
Eli opened it and handed me the letter.
I read the first few lines.
Then I had to sit down.
Maya had known there was a chance she wouldn’t make it to graduation.
She had also known exactly what that day would do to me.
She wrote that she couldn’t stand the thought of me sitting in an auditorium staring at the empty space where one of my children should have been.
So she had asked Eli for one final favor.
If she died before graduation, she wanted him to wear her red dress beneath his graduation gown.
And when his name was called, she wanted him to take off the gown and walk across the stage wearing it.
Not because she wanted attention.
Not because she wanted people to feel sorry for her.
But because, in her words:
Mom deserves to see both of us cross that stage somehow.
I covered my mouth.
“No.”
Eli stared at me.
“Mom.”
“No, sweetheart.”
I pushed the letter back toward him.
“You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.”
“She wouldn’t want you humiliated.”
“She asked me.”
“She was dying, Eli.”
The words came out harsher than I intended.
His face changed.
I reached for his hand.
“I’m sorry. I just mean… people can be cruel. You know that.”
He looked down at the dress.
“I promised her.”
“You were scared.”
“I still promised.”
I started crying.
“I already lost one child. I can’t sit there and watch hundreds of people tear apart the other one.”
He squeezed my hand.
“Then don’t watch them.”
I looked at him.
“Watch me.”
His father was far less understanding.
Mark, my husband of twenty-one years, stared at the dress as if Eli had placed something offensive on the kitchen table.
“You’re not serious.”
Eli didn’t answer.
Mark laughed once.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he was angry.
