My fingers trembled as I unzipped the bag.

Inside were knitting needles, lavender and white yarn, a paper pattern, and something lumpy wrapped in tissue.

I pulled it out carefully.

It was supposed to be a unicorn. One leg was unfinished, the body leaned to one side, and the small white tail stuck out crookedly.

“Craft class,” Sarah said quickly. “Ms. Bell said handmade gifts were better because they took time and love. Most kids made bookmarks, but Randy wanted to make a unicorn.”

“Why a unicorn? He loved dinosaurs.”

Sarah wiped her nose with her sleeve. “He said you liked them.”

I pressed the unfinished toy to my chest.

Months earlier, I had mentioned it once while drinking from an ugly unicorn mug with a chipped handle.

“He remembered that?” I whispered.

Sarah nodded. “I think he remembered everything.”

Under the yarn, I found a card.

Mom, it’s not done yet.

Don’t laugh. Sarah says the horn is the hardest part. Ms. Bell said there wasn’t enough time before Mother’s Day.

I love you more than cereal breakfast.

Love, Randy.

A sound escaped me before I could stop it.

Sarah started crying too.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, wiping her face again. “There’s more.”

Part 2 

I found a crumpled sheet of paper folded small, as if Randy had tried to hide it.

My hands shook as I opened it.

Dear Mom,

I’m sorry I ruined the Mother’s Day wall. I know you’re sick and tired, and I made more trouble.

But I promise I’m not bad.

Love, Randy.

Beneath it was a folded drawing with a purple crayon mark showing a paint spill.

For a moment, I couldn’t understand what I was seeing.

Then I did.

“What is this?” I asked.

Sarah looked down at her shoes.

“Sarah, honey?”

“Ms. Bell made him write it.”

“When?”

She looked at the backpack. “Right before.”

My skin went cold. “Right before what?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Right before he fell.”

The kitchen went silent.

“Tell me,” I said, even though part of me wanted to cover my ears.

“He was sitting at the back table,” Sarah whispered. “Ms. Bell gave him the paper and told him to apologize for ruining the Mother’s Day wall. But he didn’t ruin it. Tyler did.”

“Tyler?”

Sarah nodded. “He spilled paint on some cards, and one ripped. Randy only had glue on his hands because he was helping me.”

I looked at the apology note again. The letters were uneven. Some words were darker, like he had pressed the pencil too hard.

“He kept saying, ‘My mom knows I don’t lie,’” Sarah said. “But Ms. Bell told him that even good kids can disappoint their mothers.”

My fingers tightened around the paper.

My son had left this world thinking I might believe he was bad.

“What happened after that?” I whispered.

Sarah pressed a little fist against the center of her chest.

“He said, ‘Sarah, it’s doing the squished thing again.’”

I gripped the chair. “Again?”

She nodded, crying harder now. “He told me before, but he said not to tell you because you had the flu.”

My knees nearly gave out.

“He said moms think kids don’t know things, but they do,” she sobbed. “He said he would tell you after Mother’s Day, when the unicorn was finished.”