Part 2: A Hidden Letter Reveals The Truth.
Sarah placed the scuffed backpack gently on my kitchen table, treating it like it was something incredibly sacred.
“Tell me,” I pleaded gently.
She shook her head stubbornly. “You have to open it.”
My fingers trembled uncontrollably as I unzipped the main compartment.
Inside, I found a pair of plastic knitting needles, some lavender and white yarn, a crumpled paper pattern, and something lumpy carefully wrapped in a tissue.
I pulled the tissue out and peeled it back.
It was supposed to be a hand-knit unicorn. One leg was completely unfinished, the lumpy body leaned heavily to one side, and the small white tail stuck out crookedly.
“Craft class,” Sarah explained quickly. “Ms. Bell said handmade gifts were much better because they took time and love. Most of the kids made paper bookmarks, but Randy really wanted to make you a unicorn.”
“Why a unicorn? He absolutely loved dinosaurs.”
Sarah wiped her running nose with her denim sleeve. “He said you liked them.”
I pressed the unfinished, crooked toy to my chest, letting out a ragged breath.
Months earlier, I had jokingly mentioned unicorns once while drinking my morning coffee from an ugly, chipped novelty mug.
“He actually remembered that?” I whispered.
Sarah nodded emphatically. “I think he remembered everything about you.”
Digging under the remaining yarn, I found a homemade card.
Mom, it’s not done yet.
Don’t laugh. Sarah says the horn is the hardest part. Ms. Bell said there wasn’t enough time before Mother’s Day.
I love you more than cereal breakfast.
Love, Randy.
A gutted, broken sound escaped my lips before I could stop it.
Seeing my tears, Sarah started crying too.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, wiping her face again. “There’s more.”
Reaching back into the bag, I found a crumpled, lined sheet of paper folded very small, pushed deep into the corner as if Randy had tried desperately to hide it.
My hands shook violently as I unfolded it.
Dear Mom,
I’m sorry I ruined the Mother’s Day wall. I know you’re sick and tired, and I made more trouble.
But I promise I’m not bad.
Love, Randy.
Tucked just beneath it was a folded crayon drawing showing a purple paint spill on a classroom floor.
For a long moment, my grieving brain couldn’t comprehend what I was looking at.
Then, horrifyingly, it clicked.
“Sarah, what is this?” I asked, my voice dropping.
Sarah looked down at her scuffed sneakers.
“Sarah, honey? Please.”
“Ms. Bell made him write it.”
“When?”
She looked tearfully at the red backpack. “Right before.”
My skin went freezing cold. “Right before what?”
Her big brown eyes flooded with fresh tears.
“Right before he fell.”