Underneath the yarn was a folded Mother’s Day card written in my son’s messy handwriting.
Mom,
It’s not done yet. Don’t laugh.
Sarah says the horn is the hardest part.
I love you more than cereal breakfasts.
Love, Randy.
A noise slipped out from me before I could suppress it.
Sarah began crying as well.
Then, in a hushed voice, she said, “There’s something else.”
At the very bottom of the bag lay another piece of paper, wadded up tightly as if someone had been trying to conceal it.
I unfolded it slowly.
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I ruined the Mother’s Day wall.
I know you’re tired of problems.
But I promise I’m not bad.
Love, Randy.
I stared at the note in confusion.
“What is this?”
Sarah looked down at her shoes.
“Ms. Bell made him write it.”
A cold feeling spread through my chest.
“When?”
“Before he fell.”
There was suddenly an awkward silence in the kitchen.
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Sarah told me that yet another student, Tyler, had splattered some paint on the display for Mother’s Day, and some decorations were destroyed. Randy got blamed for it since he was holding glue to help Sarah work on her assignment.
“He kept saying he didn’t do it,” Sarah murmured. “He said you knew he wasn’t a liar.”
I looked back down at Randy’s apology letter, noting how hard he must have pressed his pencil against the page.
“He was afraid you would be disappointed in him,” Sarah continued softly.
It tore at my heart, imagining my son’s last minutes being consumed with worry over disappointing me.
“Did anything else happen after that?” I questioned.
She placed her hand on the center of her chest.
“He told me his chest was feeling squished again.”
“Again?”
