On Mother’s Day, a little girl appears at my door holding my son’s backpack—revealing a truth I was never meant to find.

had tangled brown hair, wet cheeks, and an oversized denim jacket hanging off her shoulders.

In her arms was Randy’s backpack.

My hand grabbed the doorframe.

“Are you Randy’s mom?” she asked.

I nodded.

She hugged the backpack tighter.

“You were looking for this, weren’t you?”

“Where did you get that, honey?”

“Randy told me to guard it. He was my friend.”

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