A drunk driver stole my family—husband Mark, teens Emily and Josh—in one crash. Our laughter-filled home turned hollow. I wandered rooms, chasing ghosts, barely existing.
We met in college cooking class: Mark set off the fire alarm with burnt eggs. I laughed amid chaos; love sparked. We built a life—small house, crayon-scented, imperfectly perfect. Mark taught Josh tires; Emily giggled through hair-ruffles. Then pizza run, kids begging along. “Drive safe.” His last kiss.
Sirens. 9:47 p.m. knock. Officers: wrong lane, no time. I collapsed screaming.
Months locked inside. Then a flyer: Halloween Costumes Drive.
I unearthed attic boxes—Emily’s bumblebee wings, Josh’s firefighter suit. Donated them, rallied neighbors, filled my car.
At the shelter, a girl wore the bumblebee costume. She hugged me: “Always wanted to be a bumblebee. Be my mom?”
Her words cracked me open. Orphaned, like my heart.
I adopted her. Papers, hurdles—worth it.
She’s eight now, vibrant, filling rooms with noise. I still miss Mark, Emily, Josh daily. But for her, I live again—not just exist.
