My Dog Brought Me My Late Daughter’s Sweater the Police Had Taken – Then He Led Me to a Place That Stopped Me Cold

I would stare at her room, as if waiting for her to pop out and say, “Boo!” She never does.

I’d spend days making coffee I wouldn’t drink, sitting in chairs that were uncomfortable, and I only slept when my body gave up. I just didn’t know how to live in a world in which she wasn’t.

I pretended only to function.

The police took all my baby girl’s belongings from the accident scene for evidence. Despite their kindness, it felt as if I were robbed.

I remember sitting in a dull gray room, tears streaking down my cheeks, while signing a form that listed everything she had with her: her backpack, glitter sneakers, the sunflower sketchbook she started drawing in the night before, her sparkly purple headband, and the yellow sweater.

That sweater.

It was her favorite. A soft, bright yellow one with tiny pearl buttons.

She wore it almost every weekend. It made her look like a walking sunbeam. I could spot her across any playground when she wore it.

It made her look like a sunbeam and smelled like crayons, vanilla shampoo, and the faintest hint of peanut butter from school lunches.

And now it was locked up in some evidence bag in a drawer I’d never see.

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