I lost my eight-year-old son, Randy, at school only one week before Mother’s Day.
I heard people saying that it was an unfortunate tragedy, and no one could have prevented it from happening. I tried accepting that since I knew it would be hard for me to move on if I had other thoughts in my mind.
There was one thing I could not understand.
That day Randy passed away, his bright red Spider-Man backpack was gone.
This may seem insignificant after losing your son, but you have to understand how important that backpack was to him. He took it wherever he went. He placed it near his bed before going on a field trip because he was scared that he might forget it the following morning.
And suddenly it was gone.
Ms. Bell, his teacher, stated that she never saw it once the ambulance left. “We made sure to look through all the classrooms and hallways,” the principal assured me.
The officer who had come to our home had always seemed awkward whenever I brought up this topic.
“Sometimes things can be misplaced when it comes to such incidents,” he had told me softly.
I recall looking at him from across the kitchen table.
“My son is gone because of what happened there, but the only item he had on him that day disappeared immediately after.”
He could not give me any response.
No one could.
And then Mother’s Day came, just like a sudden storm I wasn’t prepared for.
Each year, Randy would make me breakfast himself. He would usually make dry cereal, leave milk everywhere, and get flowers from outside with soil still clinging to the roots.
On that day, I was alone in the living room with Randy’s dinosaur blanket in my lap, while an empty cereal bowl sat unused on the coffee table.
It was too quiet inside the house.
It was around nine when the doorbell sounded.
I did not answer it because I did not want a condolence card or anyone to look at me with pity.
There were more rings, followed by loud banging a few seconds later.
It took all I had to finally make my way to the door, prepared to deal with anyone who needed something.
But when I opened it, a little girl stood holding onto Randy’s backpack as tight as she could.
She was no more than eight or nine years old, with dirty hair and tear-filled eyes.
As soon as I laid my eyes on that backpack, I was sure my heart had skipped a beat.
“Are you Randy’s mom?”
I nodded, unable to say anything more.
“I know that you were looking for this, right?”
My eyes locked on the familiar Spider-Man fabric.
“What do you mean by that?”
She hugged it even tighter.
“Randy told me to hold onto it; he was my best friend.”
“What is your name, darling?”
“Sarah.”
I asked her softly to come in, and she took a moment but finally came into the kitchen with the bag, as if it were something precious that she carried.
“I haven’t stolen it,” she said hastily.
“I believe you.”
“I was protecting it.”
It felt like my heart was being shattered by those words.
Sarah put the bag on the kitchen table with both hands.
“Open it,” she said.
My fingers shook as I slowly unzipped it.
Inside were balls of lavender and white yarn, knitting needles, and folds of tissue paper enclosing something soft.
I delicately removed the object from inside.
It was a handmade unicorn.
At least that’s what it was intended to be; one leg was still missing, its body had a strange tilt, and the horn appeared lopsided.
“It was Randy’s gift for you,” said Sarah hastily. “From craft class.”
I stared at the awkward-looking unicorn in shock.
“Why would he make a unicorn?” I whispered. “Randy adored dinosaurs.”
Sarah dabbed her nose with her sleeve.
“He said that you liked them,” she answered.
The pain in my chest came immediately.
Several months ago, I had made a joke about loving unicorns and sipping coffee from an ancient unicorn cup.
That he had remembered such a thing stunned me.
Underneath the yarn was a folded Mother’s Day card written in my son’s messy handwriting.
Mom,
