My 8-year-old son died at school. A week later, on Mother's Day, a little girl appeared at my door with his backpack and said, "You were looking for her, weren't you? Then you need to know the truth."

PART 2

The sheet of paper was crumpled, as if Mateo had hastily hidden it.

Mom:
I’m sorry for ruining the Mother’s Day mural. I know you’re sick and tired, and I’m just giving you more trouble.

But I promise I’m not mean.

I love you.

Mateo.

I read those words once.

Then again.

And again.

“What is this?” I asked, even though I already felt the answer was going to break me.

Sofia pressed her hands to her knees.

“Teacher Laura made him write it.”

“When?”

The girl raised her tear-filled eyes.

“A little while before he fell.”

The kitchen fell silent. Outside, a vendor passed by shouting “tamales,” like any other Sunday. Life went on, insolent, while my world tore in two.

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My 8-year-old son died at school. A week later, on Mother’s Day, a little girl appeared at my door with his backpack and said, “You were looking for her, weren’t you? Then you need to know the truth.”