I Cried at My Daughter’s Grave Every Sunday for a Month – Then the Cemetery Groundskeeper Told Me, ‘Please Don’t Cry. You Don’t Know the Whole Truth About Your Daughter’

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.

I cried at my daughter’s grave every Sunday.continue reading …