Haven’t slept. Can’t. Not yet. She’s gone. Her fault. Hate that I’m blaming myself. A daughter is dead, and her mother sits alone in her room, eyes as dry as deserts. There’s something wrong here.

Should be a mess, it’s expected, expected of most mothers. Most mothers didn’t have Elissa. Their daughters loved them, wanted them, chose them over their fathers. Elissa wasn’t like those daughters; she chose Hopper. She put her love into something as pointless as a stuffed hare. Gave it more hugs than I ever got. More kisses. It could never love her back.

A little ritual. A let go. A release. Cleanse myself of this shitty parent guilt. Cleanse myself of the reminders, of Hopper. It won’t completely satisfy, nothing will. She isn’t coming back.