Three days later, the school organized the Mother’s Day performance, which had been postponed.
I didn’t want to go, but I went anyway.
Mrs. Bell stood in front of the parents and students, the paper shaking in her hands.
“Before I begin,” he said, “I have to correct something.”
Sarah sat next to me. Grandpa Joe sat on the other side.
I didn’t want to go.
“Randy was wrongfully accused of damaging the Mother’s Day display,” Ms. Bell said. “He wasn’t responsible. I made him write an apology he didn’t have to. I accepted his initial response, and Randy deserved better from me.”
My throat was burning.
Sarah took my hand.
Mrs. Reeves announced new classroom rules to manage conflicts between students and ensure that no child is targeted before the facts have been verified.
It didn’t solve anything.
Then Sarah stood up.
“Randy deserved better from me.”
She walked toward the entrance with a small gift bag and turned to me.
“I finished it,” he said.
He took out the unicorn.
It was asymmetrical. One ear was larger than the other. The horn hung to the left. A strand of purple wool formed a small, wild mane along its neck.
It was perfect.
“I tried to do it the way he said,” Sarah whispered. “He said you never throw away bad things if they were made with love.”
He took out the unicorn.
A laugh escaped me, high-pitched and wet.
“He looks just like my boyfriend.”
“It’s not all his fault,” she said. “I did something too.”
I hugged the unicorn to my chest.
“Then it’s from both of us.”
After the show, Grandpa Joe tried to leave quickly, lowering his cap.
I stopped him at the door.
“Come to dinner on Sunday.”
He blinked. “Haley, that’s kind of you, but we don’t want to disturb you.”
“You won’t.”
“He looks just like my boyfriend.”
Sarah looked up. “Like a real dinner?”
“Real food,” I said. “Too much food. Probably dry sandwiches.”
Grandpa Joe rubbed his hat in his hands. “Sarah doesn’t make friends easily.”
“Not even Randy did that,” I said. “He picked people up discreetly.”
***
That Sunday, I set three places at my kitchen table.
“Sarah doesn’t make friends easily.”
Then I made another one: a bowl of dry cereal and a glass of milk on the side, poured as if Randy were feeding a horse.
Sarah noticed but didn’t ask anything. She simply placed the crooked unicorn next to the bowl, delicate as a prayer.
That week I lost my son. Nothing will ever heal this pain.
But for Mother’s Day, a little girl brought me her backpack.
