Ik heb een maand lang elke zondag bij het graf van mijn dochter gehuild. Toen zei de beheerder van de begraafplaats tegen me: ‘Huil alsjeblieft niet. Je kent niet de hele waarheid over je dochter.’

My chest tightened. “Who called?”

“Maya’s phone rang.”

Katherine’s voice broke.

“Your husband.”

“No.”

“Sadie said Maya answered and started crying. She kept saying, ‘Dad, please. Not tonight.’ Then she grabbed her things and ran to her car.”

“Jordan loved her.”

Katherine’s voice broke.

“I’m sure he did,” Katherine said. “But my daughter had no reason to spend her last words lying about him.”

Then she reached into her coat and pulled out a black leather sketchbook.

Maya’s sketchbook.

“Where did you get that?”

“Sadie must have picked it up before they ran to their cars. The hospital gave it to me with her things by mistake. I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“Where did you get that?”

“I am.”

I opened the swollen cover.

The first pages were smudged. Then I found a drawing of me at the kitchen sink, one hand over my mouth.

At the bottom, Maya had written:

“Mom Trying Not to Cry.”

I remembered that night. Jordan had told her art school was for fools with rich parents. Maya had run upstairs, and I had stood at the sink, pretending I was fine.

“Mom Trying Not to Cry.”

On the next page, she had written: