She pulled out the unicorn.
It was lopsided. One ear was bigger than the other. The horn leaned left. Purple yarn made a wild little mane down its neck.
It was perfect.
“I tried to make it like he said,” Sarah whispered. “He said you never threw away ugly things if somebody made them with love.”
She pulled out the unicorn.
A laugh broke out of me, sharp and wet.
“That sounds like my boy.”
“It’s not all from him,” she said. “I did some.”
I held the unicorn against my chest.
“Then it’s from both of you.”
After the showcase, Grandpa Joe tried to leave quickly, tugging his cap low.
I stopped him at the door.
“Come for dinner on Sunday.”
He blinked. “Haley, that’s kind, but we don’t want to intrude.”
“You won’t.”
“That sounds like my boy.”
Sarah looked up. “Like a real dinner?”
“Real plates,” I said. “Too much food. Probably dry rolls.”
Grandpa Joe rubbed his cap between both hands. “Sarah doesn’t make friends easily.”
“Neither did Randy,” I said. “He collected people quietly.”
***
That Sunday, I set three places at my kitchen table.
“Sarah doesn’t make friends easily.”
Then I set one more — a bowl with dry cereal, and a glass of milk on the side, poured like Randy was feeding a horse.
Sarah noticed it but did not ask. She only placed the crooked unicorn beside the bowl, gentle as a prayer.
I lost my son that week. Nothing will ever make that right.
