She wrote that the red dress had been chosen for a happy day. If she could not wear it, she did not want it sealed away in a closet as though remembering her were dangerous. She wanted the dress to be seen. She wanted her family to speak her name.
Then she wrote the sentence that broke what was left of my strength: even if her seat was empty, both of her children were still going to graduate.
I pressed the note to my chest. A sob rose out of me before I could stop it. For weeks, I had been trying to be the strong mother Aaron needed. I had swallowed my own grief so he would not have to carry mine too.
But there, in the middle of the auditorium, with Mary’s flower resting in Aaron’s palm, I stopped pretending I was holding together.
Aaron stood and wrapped his arms around me. I clung to him. The red fabric brushed my shoulder, and for a second I could almost imagine Mary’s impatient voice telling us not to make such a scene in public.
