“I’m so sorry, I forgot—” I start, mentally kicking myself for being so wrapped up in drama club that I completely missed it. Not that I would have gone anyway. I don’t visit cemeteries for the same reason I don’t visit burned-down houses: I already know what I lost.

“I know cemeteries aren’t your thing,” he says. “But just wanted to give you a heads-up. Cora’s taking it pretty hard.”

“Where is she?” I ask.

Glenn nods toward the house.

“Remember last year? Didn’t surface all day.”

“I wasn’t here last year.”

He pauses for a second and stares at the mountains, some memory rolling through his mind. I was still in the hospital at this time last year, lost in a coma, somewhere deep inside myself.

From my hospital bed, I could see the same mountains—the Wasatch Range. The jagged peaks reach so much higher than the foothills around our house in Utah’s farm country, where I grew up memorizing the rise and fall of the land outside my bedroom window. The mountains here are different, but their presence is comforting—a geologic North Star—standing steady and reliable to the east, connecting me to home.

“Do me a favor?” Glenn asks.

“Anything.”

“See how she’s doing in there. I hate for her to be alone, but this morning just about wore me out.”

I leave Glenn on the swing, where he lays his head back, eyes closed, an unshaved jawline darkening his face. I drag myself to Cora’s bedroom door, unsure whether I should disturb her. Cora handles “down days” behind closed doors, her grief locked up tight. A rustling movement when I knock tells me she’s gathering up tissues.

“Come in,” she says. When I open the door, she wears a weary smile. Without makeup, her eyes seem slightly sunken and age spots dot her cheeks. A picture of Sara sits wonky on her nightstand, her pointe shoes next to Cora on the bed.

Cora wipes the corners of her eyes with a balled-up tissue, forces a huge smile, and pats the bed next to her.

“Tell me all about drama club!”

I want to tell her, about The Wizard of Oz and the over-the-top director and the boy who helped me get back onstage, but I can’t make today about me.

Today is not my day.

“You don’t have to do that,” I say.

Cora deflates like I’ve poked her with a pin. “I’m sorry. I’ve been in here wallowing, haven’t I?”

“You’re allowed to wallow.”

She picks up Sara’s picture off the dresser.

“It’s just so strange having your child’s birthday without your child. Like this day should somehow not exist anymore. But here it is, the annual reminder of the day I became her mother.”