“Don’t open it, Daddy,” she said, tracing its invisible frame with a crayon. “The lady inside gets lonely.”
I threw the drawing away. I told myself children have wild imaginations. Grief does strange things to a child who lost her mother at four. I bought her a lock for her closet door. Not to keep something out. To keep her from going in. the locked door pdf
She cried. Not from fear. From sadness.