The first anniversary of Pierce’s death was supposed to be quiet. I baked his favorite cookies, even though he’d only had them twice before the accident. Laya drew a rainbow with “Happy Birthday in Heaven, Pierce” written in shaky six-year-old letters. My husband, Carter, carried the folding chairs to the cemetery like it was just another family picnic and not the worst day of my life replaying itself. We’d chosen a small corner under a maple tree, far from the big marble angels. I laid out the