Ten years passed.
In prison, Mom kept her head down. She followed the rules, did her work, caused no trouble. She served her time in
silence, fading into the background like a ghost.
Ten years passed. They released her.
Another winter. Another Christmas Eve. Just as cold as the night I died ten years ago.
She had nothing, just the clothes on her back. She bought only two things, white lilies and a chocolate bar.
She came to my grave.
Ten years of weather had worn the stone, but someone kept it clean. She set down the flowers. Then she unwrapped the
chocolate and set the bar at the base of the stone.
“Florence.” Her voice had aged, gone soft in a way it never had when I was alive. “I’m here.”
“I brought you a candy bar. When you were little, you used to watch other kids eat it. I never bought you any. I said it
was bad for your teeth, that we couldn’t afford to waste money.”
She smiled, and it looked like it hurt. Tears traced the deep lines in her face.
Those were excuses. The truth is, I didn’t want to spend the money. I didn’t think you deserved it.”
She sat down slowly, leaning against the cold stone. It reminded me of being sick as a child, the way she used to hold me.
Only now, it was reversed.
“I think about you every day. Every day, I regret what I did. But regret doesn’t bring you back.”
She looked up. Snow had started to fall.
“Florence, I know you might be here, watching.”
She spoke to the empty air, her voice barely a whisper. “I can feel you.”
Something in my soul trembled.
‘I need to talk to you. If I don’t say this now, I’ll never get the chance again”
Snowflakes fell on her white hair and lashes, but she didn’t brush them away.
“After your father died, I didn’t get stronger. I got worse. I was so afraid, so angry at myself. I took all of that and hurt you
with it.”
“I wasn’t a good mother. I don’t deserve to call myself one.”
“Florence, baby. I know saying I’m sorry doesn’t change anything. It doesn’t unda what I did to you. It doesn’t bring you
back
Chapter 8
tho do
“So I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Don’t ever forgive me.”
“I’m begging you. If you get to live again, don’t chose me.”
“Find parents who’ll love you the way you deserve. Let yourself grow up in a real family.”
“They’ll take care of you when you’re sick. Celebrate with you when you win. Hold you when you cry.”
“You’ll be safe. Happy. You’ll get to be a kid, throw tantrums, ask for too much. You’ll get to be loved without earning it.”
“You’ll have a long, beautiful life.”
“That’s all I ever wanted for you.”
When she finished, she closed her eyes. She looked drained, empty. The snow fell heavier now, building up on her
shoulders.
I stood there for a long moment, just watching. I sank down to where she sat. My arms passed through her as I tried to
hold her, but I stayed there anyway.
“Mom. The word came out in a voice only the dead could hear. “I heard you.”
“I know it was hard for you. I know you were scared and alone. I know you didn’t know what to do.”
“Still, Mom.” My voice came out flat, empty of everything. “I won’t forgive you.”
“My life is over. What happens to you now, the guilt you carry, the way you pay for this, that’s yours. Not mine.”
“Whatever was between us ends here.”
Maybe she heard me. Her eyes were half–closed, her breathing shallow, but the faint smile on her lips seemed to grow
just slightly.
Something tugged at me, a force from above, I looked up. Through the falling snow, the clouds had parted Light spilled
down, gold and white, wrapping around me.
It was time.
I looked at her one last time as the snow slowly buried her. Then I looked at the world I was leaving behind, with
pain and the small pieces of love I’d still managed to find.
I turned away and rose toward the light
Goodbye, Mom.
Christmas morning.
The groundskeeper was making his rounds when he spotted something at one of the graves A shape beneath the snow unmistakably human. He rushed over and swept the snow away.
Chapter 8
A white–haired, gaunt old woman was curled up there, her back against the tombstone, her body long cold and stiff. At her feet lay the wilted lilies and the candy bar, still in its wrapper. The tombstone bore a photograph of a young woman
with a soft smile.
The groundskeeper called the police.
The woman was Eleanor Miller. She’d been released from prison the day before. The grave she’d died beside belonged to
her daughter, Florence, who had frozen to death ten years earlier, on Christmas Eve.
There was no sign of struggle, no pain on her face. It looked as if she’d simply fallen asleep.
In the same place. The same season. The same way.
The debt was paid.
The snow kept falling, blanketing everything. All of it, the love and the cruelty, the pain and the guilt, buried under the
snow.
Nothing left but stone, and the photograph of a girl who would never age.
