We picked her up from school, she was light and happy and silly, like always.  In the car from the backseat, she falls apart.  She wants a Happy Meal, and we say no.  She starts crying and can’t seem to stop.

Head down, out of the car, she gets upset that her father has to go get gas, so she and I go upstairs alone.  Inside, she drops her bag and slumps onto the couch in a pile, sobbing. 

I keep the lights off.  The sun is going down and the room is dark. I turn off the alarm, close the door and notice the cat run under the bed.  

I pick up the blanket from the floor where she discarded it this morning and wrap her in in, still sobbing, and we lay on the couch. 

Sobbing. 

She says her tummy hurts.  I ask if she is worried about something. 

She says she misses Jake. She says it is not fair. She didn’t get to say goodbye.

The last time we saw him, on the couch in his green sweatpants and blue sweatshirt, hair growing in dark, face full from steroids keeping him alive, smiling at the dog, smiling at her, she did not think it was going to be the last time. 

She is sad. She is angry. She sobs. 

Then she wants to be done crying. So we are. 

For dinner, we have pancakes.