The day I came home from burying my daughter, I found her friends inside my house and thought they had come to take one more thing from me. Instead, they led me into my living room and showed me the last piece of my child I had not understood while she was alive.
I hated myself most at night. The blame got loud then. Not just for trusting a new town or a new school, but for every time I told myself my daughter was just growing up, and I needed to loosen my grip.
Angelica was just 16.
__The call came while I was halfway through reheating soup,(s) and all I got at first was a flat voice, an officer, and an address. I drove off with the soup still simmering on the stove.
My daughter was just growing up, and I needed to loosen my grip.
When I got there, blue lights flashed against the wet pavement, Angie's bicycle was twisted near the curb, and her friends stood nearby, white-faced and shaking.
