maybe five minutes. I’d look back-and-forth between Maria and Jane’s graves. Mother and daughter, beside each other, forever.

Exhaling, I placed my dirty hands on my knees, and pulled myself up.

“I really will write your story, Maria. And your daughter’s story, too.”

As I started to walk back to my car, I whispered, more as a challenge to myself, “I promise.”

To this day, I’ve yet to write her story. In a way, I think this essay is a part of it. I haven’t forgotten their stones, nor have I forgotten my promise. A month ago, I translated Maria’s stone, which was in Danish. It read, “Loving Mother. Loving Wife. And Loving Companion.”

She was loved.

When I had read that translation, I s...

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