Then he collapsed into sobs so violent it felt like something inside me shattered forever.
When Daniel came home, he was quiet, hollow, and haunted. He blamed himself for everything — the road, the timing, surviving when she didn’t. Our house felt empty in a way that screamed.
Lily’s room stayed untouched. Her art supplies scattered across the desk. Her half-colored sunflower sketch waiting for hands that would never finish it. Her toys lay where she’d dropped them. Fairy lights still twinkled at night.
On her nightstand sat the bracelet she had been making for me — unfinished.
I couldn’t bring myself to change anything.
The police had taken everything from the accident as evidence. Signing that list nearly broke me. Her backpack. Her sneakers. Her sketchbook. Her purple headband. And her yellow sweater — her favorite one with pearl buttons.
She wore it almost every weekend. It made her look like sunshine. It smelled like crayons and vanilla shampoo and childhood.
That sweater was gone.
One foggy morning, I sat at the kitchen table holding a coffee mug I hadn’t drunk from since the accident. “Best Mom Ever,” it said — Lily’s handwriting. My hands wouldn’t move.
Daniel was still asleep upstairs, restless even in rest. I stared out the window into the foggy backyard when I heard scratching at the door.
