"She turned 38 the day before she died. Apparently after all those years she still wasn't ready to give up partying. Her and her friends went out on a binger for her birthday. She told them she wasn't feeling good and went to her room. They checked on her before they left but they assumed she was asleep," he explains. "But she had overdosed and passed away on her bed."
I stare at the headstone in anger and frustration. Why wasn't I enough for her to straighten out? Why didn't she care like I did? Did she ever even think about me or wonder how I was? "This is bullshit," I say, gesturing to her headstone. "She wasn't a f*****g mother or wife. She was never there. How could they write that?"
Putting his arm around me, he pulls me closer. "Don't work yourself up over it. She isn't worth it.
