The morning my four-year-old daughter died began with her sitting at the kitchen counter in pink pajamas, making her stuffed rabbit lecture me about working too much.
“Mommy,” Ava said in a squeaky little voice, holding Mr. Bun-Bun in front of her face, “he says you need to stop being boring.”… Continue Reading
I laughed, even though I was already late and stressed.
“Well, Mr. Bun-Bun can pay the mortgage if he has so many opinions.”
