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Hazel didn’t cry. She did not argue. She turned around, walked through the door, and got into the passenger seat of my car. I followed her, my hands shaking on the keys.
She stared straight ahead the whole way home.
“Hazel, I am so sorry. I am going to go back in there and—”
“Please drive.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Please. Just drive.”
She stared straight ahead the whole way home. I kept glancing at her, waiting for the break, the tears, anything. Nothing came. That scared me more than sobbing would have.
She walked into the house, climbed the stairs, and closed her bedroom door. I heard the lock click.
I pressed my forehead against the door and cried as quietly as I could.
I went up after her. I sat on the carpet outside her room, my back against the wood.
“Hazel. Open the door. Please.”
“I’m not going to prom, Mom.”
“Honey, we can find something. We can sew something ourselves, we can—”
“Mom. Stop.” Her voice was flat, exhausted. “I’m not going. Please just stop trying.”
I pressed my forehead against the door and cried as quietly as I could. I had buried one child. I could feel the second one slipping away through the gap under the door, and I had no idea how to hold on.
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