I’ve been married to Adam for 12 years now.
He works in software, and we have Cleo, our 10-year-old daughter who’s all gangly limbs and endless questions about everything from why clouds float to whether slime counts as a science experiment.
It was her first big project since Dad died, and the contractors had left it looking like a war zone.
Dust coated every surface, boxes of tiles cluttered the hallway, and a greasy film shrouded her brand-new counters. I’d taken the day off to help her clean up and drop off some cash she needed for the final payment.
Being her only daughter, I felt responsible for making sure things went smoothly.
We’d spent the morning scrubbing down cabinets and setting up her fancy new coffee machine. By noon, she was actually laughing again, showing me the spot where she’d hidden the cookie jar so Cleo would find it during our next visit.
I promised we’d all come back for Thanksgiving, and when I hugged her goodbye, the sky had already turned that bruised shade of gray that means trouble.
It was late afternoon when I merged onto the highway.
The clouds had thickened into one unbroken ceiling, and then the rain came, not gradually, but all at once. Sheets of water hammered down so violently that my wipers couldn’t keep pace. Everything blurred into streaks of silver and shadow.
That’s when I spotted her.
The blanket wrapped around the child was soaked completely through, and the toddler’s head lolled against her mother’s shoulder like she’d given up fighting.
Cars roared past them, kicking up walls of muddy spray, but nobody slowed down. Nobody even tapped their brakes.
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