Behind the Locked Door
I followed her.
Sitting on the carpet outside her room, I leaned against the door.
“Hazel. Open the door. Please.”
“I’m not going to prom, Mom.”
“Honey, we can find something. We can sew something ourselves, we can—”
“Mom. Stop.” Her voice sounded exhausted. “I’m not going. Please just stop trying.”
I pressed my forehead against the wood and cried as quietly as I could.
I had already buried one child.
Now it felt as though the second was slipping away beneath the crack under the door, and I had no idea how to hold on.
I sat there until my legs went numb. Until the hallway light changed. Until time no longer seemed to matter.
