Then the weeks became months.
She stopped going out with friends.
She stopped answering messages.
She stopped caring about clothes, school dances, birthdays, and all the little things that had once mattered to her.
Food became complicated, too.
Some days she barely ate.
Other days she ate simply because she wanted to feel something—anything—that wasn't the hollow silence Mason had left behind.
Grief changed her body.
It changed her sleep.
It changed her smile.
Most of all, it changed the way she saw herself.
I tried everything a mother could think of.
I cooked her favorite meals.
I suggested walks.
I encouraged her to spend time with friends.
I sat beside her when she cried.
Sometimes she let me hug her.
Sometimes she didn't.
I wanted desperately to fix what had happened.
But there are some kinds of pain a mother cannot simply take away.
The day we returned from the dress shop, Hazel went straight upstairs.
She closed her bedroom door.
I stood outside for several minutes before knocking.
“Hazel?”
Nothing.
“Sweetheart?”
Still nothing.
Finally, her voice came through the door.
“Mom, I'm not going to prom.”
I swallowed.
“Okay.”
“Please stop trying.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
I sat down on the hallway floor.
“I just wanted you to have one good night.”
“I don't need a dress.”
“I know.”
“I don't need anyone feeling sorry for me.”
“I know.”
There was silence.
Then she whispered:
“I just want everything to stop.”
I stayed outside her door.
And when she couldn't hear me, I cried.
The following morning, someone knocked on our front door.
I opened it and found Eli standing there.
Eli lived two houses away.
He had been Hazel's best friend since sixth grade.
He was quiet, awkward, and almost painfully shy around adults.
But he and Hazel understood each other in a way I'd always admired.
He held something behind his back.