In the weeks that followed, I existed more than I lived. I moved through the house like a shadow, doing only what was necessary to keep breathing. I didn’t know how to be a mother in a world where my child no longer existed.
I don’t like talking about Lily’s death, but you need to understand what came after. That morning, I remembered her buckling her seatbelt, smiling wide, excited for her weekend art class. She loved drawing flowers — sunflowers most of all.
My husband, Daniel, was driving. He promised her hot chocolate afterward if she finished her sunflower sketch.
They never made it.
A pickup truck lost control on a wet curve, crossed the divider, and smashed into their car. The impact crushed the passenger side completely.
Lily died instantly.
Daniel survived — barely. Broken ribs, damaged lungs, a fractured spine. Two weeks in intensive care. When he finally woke up, the first word he whispered wasn’t my name.
“Lily?”
