The little red suitcase came back without her

Dear Delyara, My daughter was supposed to return from university for Christmas with a little red suitcase she had owned since she was sixteen. Instead, the police brought the suitcase after the accident. I did not open it for two years. Tonight, I finally did. On top was a sweater I had knitted badly, one sleeve longer than the other. Beneath it were makeup, dirty socks, two library books, and a wrapped gift with my name on it. I sat for nearly an hour before opening the gift. It was a mug. White ceramic, blue letters: Mum, stop worrying. I laughed once, then made a sound I did not recognize. My daughter had bought me a joke about the thing she knew I could never stop doing. She died before giving it to me, and somehow that made the message feel almost cruel in its accuracy. I washed the mug tonight. I made tea in it. Halfway through, I could not continue drinking because my mouth had touched the same rim she chose with me in mind. The red suitcase is still open on the floor. I have only removed the mug. Every other object feels like another conversation waiting to hurt me.