Samantha had brought Hannah in that morning because we had all understood, by then, what the day was.
A four-year-old cannot be in the room.
That is not a rule; it is simply what the room was.
So Samantha had her in a family area down the hall with a bag of Goldfish crackers and a tablet, for a little under three hours.
Afterward, I came out and walked down that corridor, and my sister stood up and I shook my head, and she put her hand over her mouth and sat back down.
And I picked up my daughter and carried her out to a bench in a small courtyard off the second floor, because I could not do it in a building.
She had been told, three days earlier, that Mommy was very sick and was not going to get better.
She had absorbed that the way a four-year-old absorbs anything, which is partially and in the wrong order.
I told her that her mother had died.
I said the word, because a chaplain had told me to say the word, and it is the single best piece of advice anybody gave me that summer.
She asked whether Mommy was coming to the house.
I said no.
