I was 72 when the phone call that split my life in two came at three in the morning. A quiet knock, a uniform in the porch light. “Car accident,” the officer said. “I’m so sorry.” My daughter and her husband were gone.
Emily was six. She was sleeping in her princess pajamas in my spare room, hair stuck to her cheek like a comma. In the morning she asked, “Where’s Mommy?” and I lied because I didn’t know how else to keep her from breaking in front of me. Later, when the truth had to be told, she climbed into my lap and whispered, “Don’t leave me like Mommy and Daddy.” I promised I wouldn’t. I kept that promise with every breath I took after.
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