My granddaughter stopped speaking shortly after her father married my late daughter’s best friend. Then she slipped a note beneath her recordable stuffed bear and quietly pleaded with me to listen when her new mom was not nearby. I pressed play outside and nearly sank onto the sidewalk.

I missed my daughter, Nora. I still miss her. Grief had a way of seeping into the wallpaper, the curtains, and the low, steady buzz of the old refrigerator. Children’sbooks

At 65, I had come to understand that certain losses never truly disappeared; they simply shifted the furniture inside your heart.
Sadie was the only brightness I had left.