I still remember the hospital hallway.
I remember the lights.
Too bright.
Too white.
Too clean.
I remember holding Lily against my chest.
She was only three months old.
Her tiny fingers were wrapped around the edge of my blouse.
Noah stood beside me.
He was ten.
He kept asking the same question.
“Where’s Dad?”
I did not know how to answer.
The doctor walked toward us.
I knew before he spoke.
There are expressions doctors cannot hide.
He removed his glasses.
Then he said my name.
“Rachel.”
My knees became weak.
“We did everything we could.”
I stopped hearing the rest.
There had been a car accident.
Michael was driving home from work.
Another vehicle crossed the center line.
The impact was severe.
The ambulance brought him in alive.
For almost two hours, I believed that mattered.
Then it didn’t.
Michael died that afternoon.
My husband was thirty-nine.
I was thirty-six.
Noah was ten.
Lily was three months old.
I stood in that hospital with one child in my arms and another holding
my hand.
