I Cried at My Daughter’s Grave Every Sunday for a Month – Then the Cemetery Groundskeeper Told Me, ‘Please Don’t Cry. You Don’t Know the Whole Truth About Your Daughter

PART 1
I visited my daughter’s grave every Sunday, blaming myself for the night I didn’t pick her up. Then the cemetery groundskeeper told me another woman had been visiting with yellow daisies and whispered apologies. I thought I knew how Maya died.

I was wrong.

For a month, I brought white roses every Sunday because the florist called them “appropriate.

Maya would have hated that.

My seventeen-year-old daughter loved yellow daisies, chipped nail polish, and jeans stained with paint.

But Maya was gone before I could bring her flowers on another birthday. Gone before graduation. Gone before the scholarship letter she had dreamed about.

And gone before I could take back the last thing I said to her.