So did I.
When it was almost finished, she touched my face.
“When you wear this, promise me you won’t spend the night hiding in a corner.”
“I don’t even dance.”
“Then learn.”
I tried to laugh.
Mom smiled.
“I didn’t make this so you could disappear. Promise me.”
I promised.
Eight days later, she died.
After the funeral, our house became painfully quiet.
Dad barely spoke.
Mom’s favorite blue mug stayed on a kitchen shelf, and I touched it every morning because somehow knowing it was still there made the house feel less empty.
Then Dad married Shirley.
Shirley had been Mom’s best friend.
People acted as though that should have made things easier.
It didn’t.
Within days, Mom’s blue mug disappeared.
“It was chipped,” Shirley said.
“It wasn’t.”
Dad sighed.
“It was just a cup, Delilah.”
“It was Mom’s cup.”
