The first time, the day they’d buried her. Vaguely, as if the scene had come from a movie he’d watched decades ago, he recalled her coffin lowering into the ground. Then someone tossing dirt on top of her.

He knew he’d worn a plaid suit Mrs. King had given him that had been too small and itchy. He knew their old lady neighbor and his social worker and his teacher and several strangers had been there.

However, he didn’t know who’d paid for her funeral, burial, plot, and marker. As a kid, the expenses hadn’t crossed his mind. Now that he lived in an adult world full of price tags, it shamed him that he had no idea whom to reimburse.

The second time he’d come here, he’d come because of CeCe. Every Memorial Day, the Colemans left flowers on the graves of their relatives. On the first Memorial Day after the earthquake, she’d insisted that they bring flowers to Sebastian’s mother’s grave, too. When she’d asked him where his mother was buried, he’d had no answer, so she’d made phone calls until she’d learned the whereabouts.

They’d gone first to the Coleman family cemetery, which had rolling hills and big trees. The contrast between that and the flat plainness of this parcel of grass by the freeway hadn’t escaped him.

CeCe had invited him to say a few words. He’d been rigid inside and out, unable to speak, haunted by thoughts of his mom’s decomposing body below the earth. CeCe and Hersh had taken turns praying. When Sebastian looked up, he’d seen Ben watching him with kindness. He’d quickly glanced away and wondered if a good son would have . . . should have . . . died right along with his mother.

He’d come here for the third time after graduating from medical school. That milestone had been a point of sentimental pride for CeCe, which, in turn, had made her think of Sebastian’s mother. The day after the Colemans had celebrated his accomplishment beneath the black-and-gold congratulations banner, CeCe had brought him here again.

That time guilt had made him as uncomfortable as the itchy plaid suit. Guilt because he avoided visiting her grave to pay his respects. Because he’d moved on with his life. Because he wanted comfort to come from his memories of her—but they still brought only hurt. Because he’d found a new family.

Now, on his fourth visit, he stared at his mom’s name for so long that it blurred.

He struggled with abandonment, with loving people, with broken promises. And all of that had started here . . . with Denise Marie Grant.

It would have been nice if his miraculous rescue from the earthquake had fixed what his mom’s death had broken. But reality was more complicated.