My father personally chose my burial site. It was a quiet hillside blanketed in tiny white flowers, with open skies stretching endlessly into the distance.
He said it was peaceful there, that no one would ever bully me again, and that I would never suffer anymore.
The funeral was quiet, attended by only a handful of people: my father, and my mother, whose mind drifted constantly between brief moments of clarity and madness.
For once, she seemed unusually lucid that day. She wore black and knelt silently in front of my grave for a very long time before finally whispering,
"Hanny… I'm sorry." Her voice shook violently. "Mom will come visit you often from now on. I'll bring you your favorite snacks, okay?"
My father carefully placed my photograph in front of the headstone. It was the pic
