Sarah began crying too.
“Mom, it’s not done yet.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her sleeve across her nose again. “There’s more in there.”
I found a crumpled sheet of paper folded small, like Randy had tried to hide it.
My hands shook as I opened it.
“Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I ruined the Mother’s Day wall. I know you’re sick and tired and I made more trouble.
But I promise I’m not bad.
Love, Randy.”
I found a crumpled sheet of paper.
Under it was a folded drawing, the paint spill marked in purple crayon.
For a moment, the words didn’t make sense.
Then they did.
“What’s this?” I asked.
Sarah stared down at her sneakers.
“Sarah. Honey?”
“Ms. Bell made him write it.”
“When?”
She looked at the backpack. “Right before.”
The words didn’t make sense.
My skin went cold. “Right before what?”
Her eyes filled so fast it looked painful.
“Right before he fell.”
The kitchen went silent.
“Tell me,” I said, though part of me wanted to cover my ears.
“He was sitting at the back table,” she whispered. “Ms. Bell gave him the paper and told him to write sorry for ruining the Mother’s Day wall. But he didn’t ruin it. Tyler did.”
“Right before what?”
“Tyler?”
Sarah nodded. “He spilled paint on some cards, and one ripped. Randy only had glue on his hands because he was helping me.”
I looked at the apology note again. The letters were uneven. Some words were darker, like he had pressed too hard.
“He kept saying, ‘My mom knows I don’t lie,’” Sarah said. “But Ms. Bell said sometimes good kids still disappoint their mothers.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
My son had died thinking I might believe he was bad.
“My mom knows I don’t lie.”
“Then what happened?” I whispered.
Sarah pressed her little fist to the middle of her chest.
“He said, ‘Sarah, it’s doing the squished thing again.’”
I gripped the chair. “Again?”
She nodded, crying now. “He told me before, but he said not to tell you because you had the flu.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“He said moms think kids don’t know stuff, but we do,” she cried. “He said he’d tell you after Mother’s Day, when the unicorn was done.”
“Then what happened?”
“Oh, Randy.”
“I told him to drink water,” Sarah sobbed. “My daddy used to say that when my tummy hurt. Drink water and wait a minute. I didn’t know hearts were different.”
I dropped to the floor in front of her.
“Sarah, look at me.”
“It didn’t help.”
“No, baby. It wasn’t medicine. But it was kindness.”
Her face crumpled.
I dropped to the floor.
“Then he tried to put the unicorn away,” she whispered. “He said you couldn’t see the sorry note before the present. Then his chair scraped, and he collapsed.”
I covered my mouth.
“Everybody screamed,” Sarah said. “Ms. Bell kept saying his name too loud. Then the paramedics came.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“I remember their boots. They were black and shiny. One stepped on Randy’s purple yarn. I wanted to move it, but Ms. Reeves told us to stand back.”
“Is that when you took the backpack?”
“Then the paramedics came.”
Sarah nodded. “After they took him. His backpack was still under the table. Randy told me to guard the unicorn until Mother’s Day, and the sorry note was in there.”
“So you took it.”
“I thought if grown-ups found it, they might throw it away.”
She looked at me with terrified, loyal eyes.
“So I guarded it.”
“His backpack was still under the table.”
I held her while she cried into my shoulder, and the unfinished unicorn sat between us like Randy had only stepped out of the room.
When she calmed down, I asked, “Who takes care of you?”
“My grandpa. Grandpa Joe.”
“Do you know his number?”
Her hands shook, so I dialed.
Grandpa Joe answered breathlessly. “Sarah? Is this you, my child?”
“This is Haley. Randy’s mom. Sarah is with me.”
“Oh, Lord. Ma’am, I’m sorry. She left before I woke up.”
“Who takes care of you?”
“She didn’t bother me, Joe,” I said. “She brought my son home.”
He went quiet.
“Please come over. Tomorrow, come to the school with me.”
Sarah looked terrified. “Ms. Bell will be mad.”
I took her hand. “Randy was scared too, but he still told you the truth, honey. Now we tell it for him, okay?”
“Ms. Bell will be mad.”
***
The next morning, I put Randy’s card, the apology letter, and the unfinished unicorn into my son’s backpack.
Then I drove to the school.
The Mother’s Day display was still in the hallway: paper flowers, crooked cards, painted hearts, and one blank space near the middle.
I knew it was Randy’s.
Ms. Bell came out when she saw us. Her face changed when she spotted the backpack.
“Sarah,” she said softly. “Where did you get that?”
I drove to the school.
“Randy gave it to me,” Sarah said, reaching for my hand.
I let her take it.
Ms. Bell looked at me. “Haley, maybe we should speak privately.”
“No,” I said. “We should speak honestly.”
I placed Randy’s apology letter in front of her.
