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

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Maya would have hated that.

My seventeen-year-old daughter loved yellow daisies, chipped nail polish, and jeans stained with paint.

But Maya was gone before I could bring her flowers on another birthday. Gone before graduation. Gone before the scholarship letter she had dreamed about.

And gone before I could take back the last thing I said to her.

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