Every Sunday For A Month, I Cried At My Daughter’s Grave — Then The Cemetery Groundskeeper Said, “You Don’t Know The Whole Truth About Your Daughter”

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I opened the cover.

Inside were sketches.

Drawings.

Ideas.

Pieces of Maya.

Then I found a page that nearly destroyed me.

A drawing of me standing at the kitchen sink.

My hand covered my mouth.

At the bottom she had written:

Mom Trying Not To Cry.

Tears blurred my vision.

I turned another page.

Dad Says Artists Become Burdens.

Mom Says He Just Worries.

Then came continue reading …