A Goth Girl Visited My 73-Year-Old Mom Every Saturday—After Her Funeral, She Handed Me a Key and Revealed My Mom’s Final Secret

and a book usually open somewhere nearby.

“There you are, Maeve.”

The young woman beside her turned.

She couldn’t have been much older than 25. She wore black from neck to boots, tattoos covered both forearms, and several silver piercings caught the light when she moved.

“This is Raven,” Mom said. “She’s a friend.”

Raven stood. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too.continue reading …