My daughter passed away nine years ago… but yesterday, an elementary school principal called to tell me that Emily was waiting for me at the front office.
I told her that was impossible. That I had buried my little girl in her yellow dress, a rag doll clutched in her arms. That I still slept with that dress until the scent finally faded and all that remained was grief.
Then the principal lowered her voice and said, ‘Ma’am, the girl is wearing a hospital ID bracelet with your name on it.’
The glass of water slipped from my hand. I didn’t fumble it. I didn’t drop it by accident. My hand simply ceased to exist for a split second, and the glass shattered against the kitchen floor, splashing my bare feet with cold water and tiny shards.
My husband, David, looked up from his plate of breakfast hash as if I had just interrupted something incredibly important. His fork stopped halfway to his mouth, and irritation flickered across his face.
