My eight-year-old son died at school a week before Mother’s Day, and his backpack disappeared that same day. Everyone told me there was nothing more to know. Then a little girl knocked on my door with the backpack in her hand, and what it contained changed the way I understood my son’s final days.
My eight-year-old son died at school a week before Mother’s Day, and everyone kept telling me there was nothing that could be done.
I tried to believe it, because anything else seemed impossible.
But Randy’s bright red Spider-Man backpack disappeared the same day he died.
That was the part no one could explain.
His teacher, Mrs. Bell, said she didn’t know where he had ended up. The principal, Mrs. Reeves, said the school had checked everywhere. Even the officer seemed uncomfortable when I asked again about it.
My eight-year-old son died at school.
“Haley,” he said softly. “I know you want answers, ma’am, but sometimes, in emergencies, things get lost.”
I looked at him across the kitchen table. “My son passed out at school, and the one thing he always carried with him is gone. It’s not the same as losing it.”
He didn’t argue.
Nobody did, and that was worse.
“My son fainted at school.”
***
On Mother’s Day morning, I sat on the living room floor with Randy’s dinosaur blanket on my lap and his bowl of cereal on the coffee table.
Every year she made me breakfast.
Breakfast consisted of dry cereal, too much milk on the side, and flowers torn from the garden with half the roots still attached.
This year, the cup was empty.
I sat on the living room floor with Randy’s dinosaur blanket.
At nine o’clock, the bell rang.
I ignored it because I didn’t have the energy to face anyone.
It rang again.
Then there was a frantic knocking.
I struggled to my feet, wiped my face, and opened the door, ready to turn down another saucepan or another pair of sad eyes.
But a little girl was standing on my porch.
Then there was a frantic knocking.
She had tousled brown hair, wet cheeks, and an oversized denim jacket hanging off her shoulders.
In her arms was Randy’s backpack.
My hand grabbed the door jamb.
“Are you Randy’s mom?” she asked.
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