Nonfiction | January 13, 2026

The Role of a Happy Woman 

Lauren Fath 

At age sixteen, I wasn’t sure what to buy for two kids, ten and six, whose mother had just taken her own life. My logic, though it now seems faulty, was that flowers would die. I wanted them to have something they could keep. I’m not sure why I thought they would want keepsakes to remind them of their mother’s death. Perhaps that’s precisely why people buy flowers for funerals. 

Outside Barnes & Noble, I stepped from the passenger seat of my mom’s car and into the crisp October air. “Just wait in the parking lot,” I said. “I want to do this on my own.” 

Inside, I roamed among the tall shelves, looking for the perfect gifts for Amanda and Andrew Reilly, the children I’d babysat every Saturday night for the past three years. For Amanda, I found a satin-covered journal. It was blue and cool to the touch, the blank pages edged with gold. For Andrew, a book about famous baseball players. He was a Toronto Blue Jays fan and spent hours flipping through his collection of baseball cards and telling me—in his endearing lisp—stories and statistics about the players. This book told longer stories, accompanied by full-page photos of batters mid-swing and pitchers frozen in motion.  

When I checked out, the cashier offered to wrap the items for me, and I accepted. But I neglected to mention that they were for a funeral. So when she re-emerged at the counter and handed me Amanda’s journal wrapped in whimsical, too-bright floral paper and Andrew’s book in a print of sports equipment, I couldn’t protest. I would just have to re-wrap the gifts myself, at home. That seemed like the right way to do it, anyhow. I had purchased these gifts with money I’d made babysitting, and I wanted them to really be from me. Even at a young age, I took great care in giving presents I’d chosen and bought by myself.