It made her look like a sunbeam and smelled like crayons, vanilla shampoo, and the faintest hint of peanut butter from school lunches. And now it was locked up in some evidence bag in a drawer I'd never see.
That morning, I sat at the kitchen table in Daniel's oversized sweatshirt, hugging a mug of coffee I had already reheated twice. The mug said "Best Mom Ever" in colorful marker, a Mother's Day gift from Lily.
I kept telling myself to drink the coffee, to do something normal, something human, but my hands wouldn't move.
I hadn't drunk from it since, but that morning, I needed something that still had her fingerprints on it.
And now it was locked up
in some evidence bag
in a drawer I'd never see.
Continued on the next page
