Before My 19-Year-Old Son Died, He Donated His Heart to an 18-Year-Old Girl—Then Her Mother Handed Me a Letter: “Mom, There’s Something You Need to Know About Her”
She pointed.
“He thought my blue scarf looked sophisticated.”
I laughed.
“He had terrible taste.”
We could tease him.
That was another stage of grief.
PART 68 — RICHARD BECOMES SMALLER
For a long time, Richard’s betrayal dominated everything.
Eventually it shrank.
Not disappeared.
