Back then, I was barely functioning. Neil handled it all—the hospital documents, the funeral, the decisions I couldn’t process through the fog of grief. He told me Grace had been declared brain-dead, that there was no hope. I signed forms without truly reading them. We had no other children, and I told him I couldn’t survive losing another.
Then, one quiet Thursday morning, the house phone rang. We never use it anymore, so the sound startled me. The caller introduced himself as Frank, the principal of Grace’s former middle school. He said a girl was in his office asking to call her mother—and she had given them my name and number.
I told him there had to be a mistake. My daughter was d3ad.
