The doctors called Emily’s survival a miracle. So did the police and the pastor at the funeral, standing in front of three closed caskets.
I learned how to cook meals I hadn’t made in 20 years.
I taught myself how to comb a child’s hair without making her cry and how to sit in a school gym holding back tears while watching her perform as Snowflake Number 3.
Emily didn’t ask for much.
She never whined, never threw tantrums. She’d just look at me sometimes as if she were waiting for someone else to walk through the door instead of me.
The doctors called Emily’s survival a miracle.
We never really talked about the crash. Not really.
She asked where her parents were and why they weren’t coming back. I gave her the answer I’d practiced a hundred times.
« It was an accident, sweetheart. A bad storm. Nobody’s fault. »
She nodded and didn’t ask again.
