The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. -Harriet Beecher Stowe

Evie threaded her way through the rows of tombstones, carrying the bouquet of red roses she'd picked up on her way over. She wasn't the only one here today; there was a man a few rows over, and two women stood several rows ahead of her, holding their own bouquets. Her father would come later, she knew, but this was her time.

She'd sit in the grass for a few hours and tell her mother everything that was going on in her life: her dreams, her fears, her hopes, and her regrets. Then she'd go home and cry on Louise's shoulder until her throat ached and she had no tears left. Then next year she'd come back and do it all over again.

She didn't know how not to do it.

Evie knelt down in the grass and brushed the leaves and stray branches away from the marble, laying the roses across the weather-worn gray stone as she spoke, unable to keep her voice from hitching on the last word as tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her face.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mom..."