People moved through their routines only a few yards away, unaware that my husband was standing over my hospital bed with his fist tightening again.
At that moment, Emma was probably imagining her father beside me with flowers in his hands.
She was nine years old and still believed adults told the truth about the people they loved.
She had asked me during our last phone call whether Daddy was helping the nurses take care of me.
I had said yes because I did not want her to worry.
The lie had come easily.
I had spent years protecting Caleb’s image, even from our own daughter.
Her picture was still taped to the wall beside me.
COME HOME SOON, MOMMY.
The words looked different now.
Going home could not simply mean returning to the same house and the same rules.
Surviving the crash would mean nothing if I carried Emma back into a life where she learned that love required silence.
