I cried at my daughter’s grave every Sunday for a month before Otis, the cemetery groundskeeper, finally stopped pretending he didn’t see me.
That fourth Sunday, I brought white roses again because the florist had called them “proper.” Maya would have made a face at that.
My seventeen-year-old daughter liked yellow daisies, chipped nail polish, and jeans with paint on the knees.
I cried at my daughter’s grave every Sunday.
But Maya was gone before I could bring her daisies on some ordinary birthday. Gone before graduation or the art scholarship letter. And gone before I could take back the last thing I said to her.
That night, she’d asked me to pick her up because she was tired and scared of driving in the rain.
I’d been tired of standing between her and Jordan.
“Ask your father,” I’d said. “I’m done being the referee tonight. You two need to sort yourselves out.”
Two hours later, the police knocked on our door.
“I’m done being the referee tonight.”
Two cars had gone off near the bridge. No survivors.
The funeral director said the casket had to stay closed. The officers told me it was kinder that way.
So, every Sunday, I knelt at Maya’s grave and whispered the same thing.
“I’m sorry, baby. I should have picked you up.”
Jordan came with me twice. After that, he stopped.
“It isn’t healthy, Jackie,” he said that morning while I stood by the door with the roses. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“I’m her mother.”
“Then act like it. Stop falling apart every Sunday.”
“I’m sorry, baby.”
That was my habit with Jordan. I softened. When he called Maya’s art a hobby, I said, “Your dad just worries.” When he mocked her scholarship, I said, “He’s just scared for your future, sweetheart.”
I spent years translating him into someone kinder.
But that morning, I was too tired.
“I’m going to see my daughter,” I said, and left.
“He’s just scared for your future, sweetheart.”
***
At the cemetery, rain soaked through my coat as I set the roses by Maya’s stone.
“Maya,” I whispered, touching her name. “I’m sorry.”
Behind me, boots scraped on gravel.
“Ma’am?”
I turned.
Otis stood there, rain dripping from his cap.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.”
Rain soaked through my coat.
“It’s fine.”
He looked at the roses, then at me. “Can I ask you something?”
I wiped my face. “Okay.”
“The woman who visits your daughter on Thursdays always brings daisies. She says Maya liked them. Is that true?”
My hand went cold against the stone.
“What woman?”
“Tall. Blonde. Drives a dark SUV. Comes early.”
“No one else visits Maya.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes, ma’am. She does.”
“What does she say?”
Otis looked toward the empty cemetery road.
“She apologizes.”
My stomach tightened. “Why would a stranger apologize to my daughter?”
“I don’t know all of it,” he said. “But I know guilt when I see it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I know guilt when I see it.”
His voice dropped.
“Please don’t cry. But you don’t know the whole truth about your daughter.”
I stared at him.
“The police told me the truth.”
“The police told you about the road,” Otis said. “Maybe not why she was on it.”
I looked down at the roses in my hand. “When does she come?”
“Thursday. Around eight.”
“Then I’ll be here.”
“The police told me the truth.”
***
Thursday morning, I parked outside the cemetery gates. At 8:06, a dark SUV pulled in.
A woman stepped out holding yellow daisies. I got out before she reached Maya’s grave.
“Are those for my daughter?”
She froze so hard the flowers shook.
“Answer me.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “And mine.”
“Who are you?”
“Are those for my daughter?”
Her eyes filled. “Katherine.”
“That means nothing to me.”
“My daughter was Sadie.”
