My hands shook so badly that the first photograph I took was a blur.

I tried again and caught her turning toward the house with the groceries in her arms.

Then I lowered my phone.

For years I had wondered what I would say if I could speak to Laura one more time.

I imagined telling her that I had repaired the loose step she always complained about, or that the market still stocked the cinnamon rolls she liked, or that Emma had her laugh.

Now she stood less than a hundred yards away, and the only question I could think was: *How could you let your mother grieve?*