“Tell him he was loved.”
I gave her the note—and a small blanket I had made in secret. Blue wool. Yellow birds stitched into the corners. The only thing that felt like it belonged to both of us.
The next day, it was all gone.
When I asked about the blanket later, my mother said she had burned it. Said it wasn’t healthy for me to hold on.
And then they sent me away to college… before I had even healed.
No grave.
No answers.
No closure.
So I stopped asking.
I learned how to carry grief quietly—without making anyone uncomfortable.
My mother died two years ago.
My father moved in last year after his health began to fail. His memory isn’t perfect anymore… but it’s not gone.
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