“Guess what, Mommy? I die on my birthday,” said Gracie matter-of-factly a day before her fifth birthday.
Trista filed it away as one of those weird things children say, but she didn’t sleep that night.
At the party the next day, she kept close to her full-of-joy Gracie.
Trista drew out her own breath as Gracie blew out her birthday candles. She pushed her daughter’s curls from her face. “See? Still alive.”
The girl rested her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Not this one, silly. I fly with the angels when I’m twenty-four.”
