Time-zone-arranged fights over the phone and “forgotten” Christmas cards and muffled cries behind Saturday-morning cartoons. Across the table, a lifetime away, her mother struggled to explain the concept of divorcement, a term the deceased only later learned to pronounce as divorce because, let’s be honest, you can’t believe everything you hear.

A rumor recently confirmed McDonald’s made them with pink stuff, and while no one knew what simmered in a cauldron to conjure the rose batter, one certainty remained clear: It was not meat. Propped against the booth of an ancient McDonald’s, the deceased asked her mother, “Are you and daddy getting a divorcement?” As her suspicions turned into certainties, she stared at the bundle of chicken nuggets in front of her. In honor of her first and final trip to the attic, loved ones compiled a chronological list of the deceased’s greatest mysteries.

She is predeceased by her grandmother, Elizabeth Hambrick her grandfather, Johnny Holland and her step-uncle, Raymond Wilkes-none of whom she knew or tolerated. The deceased is survived by her parents, Jennifer and Jason Wilkes her ex-father, Jeremy Hambrick and her siblings, Blake, Cale, Brady, Bella, Shepherd, Elayne, Nicholas, and Sergio-most of whom she knew and tolerated. following twelve hours of muscle-grating contractions and regret-induced tears. The beloved-or detested, depending on your tolerance for round-the-clock accidents and excuses-woke the world with her first cry on Januat 11:23 P.M. But then came rotten plywood and one too many cookies and, well, you know the story.

Please address this issue at home.” The odds and ends of the attic the deceased sought to solve, dismantle, answer. (Who knew that second sleeve of Oreos would actually count!) As she descended to the ground floor, she considered the following: umbilical cords, Bon Jovi records, buffalo nickels, elves, ornaments, ladybugs, ketchup, troll dolls, beach chairs, teeth, wrapping paper, marbles, and four notes from school that read, “Your child bit his/her classmate today. But since assumptions leave holes and holes require filling, here is the truth: At 2:54 P.M., in the home marked 213 on Spring Hill Road, the deceased entered the attic in search of a mystery and, upon first step, plunged through the ceiling. If you knew her-an order-obsessed coward who passed her recesses with biographies and played puppet to anxiety-you can assume she finally choked on the words she held back or worried herself into a heart attack. Camryn Whitley Hambrick of Lexington, South Carolina, 16, passed away on Septemwith fiberglass in her hair and questions on her tongue.

Embraced by Nicholas Bella