She’s eight now. And for the past one year and nine months, that backpack has gone everywhere with her.
At first, I thought it was just a phase—a part of how she was processing her grief. So I let her keep it close.
We adjusted the straps as much as possible, but it still hung too large on her small frame.
I tried replacing it once.
I took her to a store filled with bright, cheerful backpacks—glittering stars, unicorns, and sequins that shimmered and changed color under her touch.
“What about a new backpack? These are cute,” I suggested gently.
She glanced at them… then tightened her grip around her dad’s old bag.
“I want this one. It was Daddy’s. It still smells like him.” She paused before adding softly, “He called me Alice-bug.”
I swallowed hard. “I remember.”
She traced her fingers over a torn patch. “I think he’d want me to keep it.”
That was the end of the conversation.
I knew it might become an issue at school. Children can be unkind.
I just didn’t realize how cruel it would become.
At first, it was only looks.
Children stared when she stepped out of the car.
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