I Cried at My Daughter’s Grave Every Sunday—Then a Stranger with Yellow Daisies Told Me the Truth About Her Final Night

every Sunday for a month before Otis, the cemetery groundskeeper, finally stopped pretending he didn’t see me.

That fourth Sunday, I brought white roses again because the florist had called them “proper.” Maya would have made a face at that.

My seventeen-year-old daughter liked yellow daisies, chipped nail polish, and jeans with paint on the knees.

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