My parents refused to care for my younger kids while I tended to my oldest with leukemia; I called my ex-husband, but he said: “You’re just a poor writer, deal with it”

So I noticed when it suddenly lit up again.

The book had been out about a month.

Apparently a regional reporter contacted my mother for comment.

That was how she learned her granddaughter’s death had become a story strangers were reading.

Suddenly, my mother posted a photo of the cover.

So proud of my daughter, she wrote with a red heart.

The same kind of heart she had put beside banana bread while I was begging her for help.

So proud.

As though pride mailed in a year late still