Sarah nodded. “He spilled paint on some cards, and one ripped. Randy only had glue on his hands because he was helping me.”
I looked at the apology note again. The letters were uneven. Some words were darker, like he had pressed too hard.
“He kept saying, ‘My mom knows I don’t lie,'” Sarah said. “But Ms. Bell said sometimes good kids still disappoint their mothers.”
My fingers tightened around the paper.
My son had died thinking I might believe he was bad.
“My mom knows I don’t lie.”
“Then what happened?” I whispered.
Sarah pressed her little fist to the middle of her chest.
“He said, ‘Sarah, it’s doing the squished thing again.'”
I gripped the chair. “Again?”
She nodded, crying now. “He told me before, but he said not to tell you because you had the flu.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“He said moms think kids don’t know stuff, but we do,” she cried. “He said he’d tell you after Mother’s Day, when the unicorn was done.”
“Then what happened?”
“Oh, Randy.”
“I told him to drink water,” Sarah sobbed. “My daddy used to say that when my tummy hurt. Drink water and wait a minute. I didn’t know hearts were different.”
I dropped to the floor in front of her.
“Sarah, look at me.”
“It didn’t help.”
“No, baby. It wasn’t medicine. But it was kindness.”
Her face crumpled.
I dropped to the floor.
“Then he tried to put the unicorn away,” she whispered. “He said you couldn’t see the sorry note before the present. Then his chair scraped, and he collapsed.”
I covered my mouth.
“Everybody screamed,” Sarah said. “Ms. Bell kept saying his name too loud. Then the paramedics came.”
Her voice dropped lower.
“I remember their boots. They were black and shiny. One stepped on Randy’s purple yarn. I wanted to move it, but Ms. Reeves told us to stand back.”
“Is that when you took the backpack?”
“Then the paramedics came.”
Sarah nodded. “After they took him. His backpack was still under the table. Randy told me to guard the unicorn until Mother’s Day, and the sorry note was in there.”
“So you took it.”
