“Please drive.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Please. Just drive.”
She stared forward the entire way home. I kept looking over, waiting for her to break, to cry, to do anything at all. Nothing came. That frightened me more than sobbing would have.
She entered the house, climbed the stairs, and shut her bedroom door. I heard the lock click.
I went after her. I sat on the carpet outside her room with my back 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 was empty and tired. “I’m not going. Please just stop trying.”
I pressed my forehead to the door and cried as quietly as I could. I had already buried one child. I could feel the second slipping away through the space beneath that door, and I did not know how to keep hold of her.
