Weeks after losing my daughter in a tragic accident, I was barely surviving, moving through each day like a shadow. Then, one foggy morning, our dog began acting strangely—and what he led me to changed the way I carried my grief forever.
My name is Erin. I’m 40 years old, and three weeks ago, my life split cleanly down the middle.
My daughter Lily was ten. She was bright, stubborn, endlessly curious, and impossibly kind. On a rainy Saturday morning, she buckled herself into the passenger seat, grinning as she talked about the sunflower she planned to finish at her weekend art class. My husband Daniel was driving, teasing her with promises of hot chocolate afterward.
A pickup truck lost control on a slick curve, crossed the divider, and slammed into their car. The impact crushed the passenger side. Lily died instantly.