“What are you talking about, Mrs. Dilmore?”
“It’s an envelope,” she said. “It has your name on it. It’s from Owen.”
My hand closed tighter around the shirt. “From Owen?”
“Yes. I don’t know how it ended up there. I found it only today. But it’s in his handwriting.”
“It’s from Owen.”
I do not remember ending the call. I just remember standing too fast and feeling my heartbeat climb into my throat.
I found my mother in the kitchen rinsing a mug. She had been staying with us since the funeral because I was still not eating enough and still waking in the night calling my son’s name.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“His teacher found something. Owen left me something, Mom.”
Her face changed with that soft, stricken understanding only another mother can wear without looking away.
Charlie was at work. Work had become his hiding place since the funeral. He left early, came home late, and said very little in between. He wouldn’t even let me hug him anymore. The distance between us had stopped feeling like grief alone. It had begun to feel like a locked room I could not get into.
He wouldn’t even let me hug him anymore.
At a stoplight, I looked at the little wooden bird hanging from my rearview mirror and started crying. Owen had made it for me last Mother’s Day in shop class. The wings were uneven. The beak was crooked.
I had called it beautiful, and he had rolled his eyes and said, “Mom, you’re legally required to say that!”
The school looked the same when I pulled in. That was unbearable.
