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’

soaked through my coat as I set the roses by Maya’s stone.

« Maya, » I whispered, touching her name. « I’m sorry. »

Behind me, boots scraped on gravel.

« Ma’am? »

I turned.

Otis stood there, rain dripping from his cap.

« I didn’t mean to scare you. »

« It’s fine. »

He looked at the roses, then at me. « Can I ask you something? »

I wiped my face. « Okay. »

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