My 6-year-old kept running off at my mom’s funeral. I was too broken to stop her. My uncle said, “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Shameful mother, shameful child!” After the burial, a groundskeeper led me behind the chapel.
I stopped dead when I saw my daughter kneeling in the dirt next to a grave that had no flowers. It wasn’t my mother’s. It was a stranger’s. She’d found it during the service. It was a grave with no name, no flowers, nothing.
She’d been picking wildflowers from the edge of the cemetery and laying them on every grave that looked forgotten. There were seven of them. She looked up at me with dirt on her dress and said, “They didn’t have anyone, Mommy.”
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