The morning that ended my life started exactly like any other Tuesday. I can still smell the burnt toast. I can still hear the chaotic, beautiful sounds of seven-year-old Lily arguing with four-year-old Noah over who got to press the button on the coffee maker.
Ethan was rushing around the kitchen with his tie thrown over one shoulder, trying to pack lunches while simultaneously wrangling two energetic kids into their jackets. I was supposed to be in the car with them. We were heading down to Richmond to visit Ethan’s parents for the long weekend, but at the last minute, my boss called with an emergency file that needed to be audited.
I told Ethan to take the kids and go ahead, promising I would drive down the next morning to meet them. I stood on the front porch in my pajamas, holding a mug of coffee, and waved as their silver SUV backed out of the driveway.
Ethan honked twice. Lily waved her stuffed rabbit out the window. Noah had his face pressed against the glass, making a silly face. That was the last time I saw them alive. Three hours later, two police officers knocked on my front door. The rest of that afternoon is a blur of flashing lights, sterile hospital hallways, and a ringing in my ears that felt like physical pain.
A commercial truck driver had fallen asleep at the wheel on Interstate 95. He crossed the median at seventy miles an hour and crushed their vehicle before Ethan even had time to touch the brakes. It was over in a fraction of a second. I survived because I was not with them.
That was the sentence that kept cutting through my mind like broken glass as I sat shivering in the hospital chapel.
My hands were stained with black ash and dirt from where the first responders had let me touch the wreckage at the towing yard.
I was hollowed out. I wasn’t a person anymore; I was just an empty shell of grief. I pulled out my phone and dialed my father’s number. I just needed my parents. I needed them to drive to the hospital, wrap their arms around me, and tell me how I was supposed to keep breathing.
The phone rang four times before my dad picked up. “Hello?” “Dad,” I whispered, my voice cracking. “There’s been an accident.” For a moment, all I heard was a barrage of noise. Pop music was blaring through the receiver. People were laughing, silverware was scraping against plates, and I could clearly hear my younger sister, Melissa, yelling at someone to bring the cake out.
Melissa was the golden child. She was turning twenty-eight, and my parents had rented out a private room at a high-end restaurant for her. “What happened?” my dad asked. He didn’t sound concerned. He sounded annoyed, as if I had called to complain about a flat tire and was ruining the mood. “Ethan is gone,” I said.
