“His teacher found something,” I said. “Owen left me something.”
Her face changed in a way only another mother understands.
Charlie was at work. Since the funeral, work had become his escape. He left early, came home late, and barely spoke. He wouldn’t even let me hug him anymore. The distance between us no longer felt like grief—it felt like a locked door I couldn’t open.
At a stoplight, I looked at the small wooden bird hanging from my rearview mirror—Owen’s Mother’s Day gift. Its wings were uneven, its beak crooked.
I had called it beautiful.
He had rolled his eyes and joked, “Mom, you’re legally required to say that.”
When I arrived, the school looked exactly the same. That somehow made everything worse.
Mrs. Dilmore waited near the office, pale and nervous. She handed me a plain white envelope with trembling hands.
“I found it in the back of my drawer,” she said.
I held it carefully. On the front, in Owen’s handwriting, were two words:
