She nodded slowly while crying.
“Yes, but he told me earlier and said not to tell you because you were ill.”
I couldn’t breathe.
It seemed that Randy had been hiding his chest pains from me because he did not want to worry me.
Sarah wiped her tears.
“I told him to drink water,” she whispered. “My grandpa always says water helps when something hurts.”
I knelt carefully in front of her.
“You were trying to help him.”
“But it didn’t help.”
“No,” I answered softly. “But you were kind to him. That matters.”
Sarah told me that Randy tried putting the unicorn back into his backpack because he did not want me to see the apology note before his Mother’s Day gift.
Then Randy collapsed.
Teachers shouted. Paramedics rushed into the room. Students were hurried out of the classroom.
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Through all the chaos, Randy’s backpack remained untouched beneath the table.
“Before everything happened, he told me to protect it until Mother’s Day,” Sarah said quietly. “That’s why I took it home.”
She appeared frightened when she confessed this.
“I thought adults would throw it away.”
Rather than responding to her, I hugged her tight as she sobbed into my chest.
That bag contained everything left of my child’s soul.
It wasn’t just the unicorn he never finished; it was the evidence that proved what he was like during those last few hours – compassionate, considerate, and concerned about others.
After Sarah regained her composure, I asked her who raised her.
“Grandpa,” she responded softly.
