PART 1 — THREE CASKETS
When I called my parents from the hospital chapel, my hands still
smelled like smoke.
That morning my husband, Ethan Miller, had been driving our children
along Interstate 95 outside Richmond, Virginia.
Lily was seven.
Noah was four.
A truck crossed the median.
Their SUV never had enough time.
All three died.
I survived because I had stayed home to finish work.
For months, that fact felt like an accusation.
I called my father.
Music and laughter filled the background.
My sister Melissa was celebrating her birthday.
“Dad,” I whispered. “There’s been an accident.”
He became quiet only after I said Ethan’s name.
Then Lily’s.
Then Noah’s.
“The funeral is Friday. Please come.”
“Friday?”
“Yes.”
He sighed.
“Claire, Friday is Melissa’s birthday dinner. The reservation has been
booked for weeks.”
I thought grief had already found every place inside me capable of
hurting.
I was wrong.
“Dad, my husband and my children are dead.”
“I understand.”
No, he didn’t.
“But today is your sister’s birthday. We can’t come.”
At the funeral, I stood between three caskets while Ethan’s parents held
me upright.
Margaret Miller cried so hard she could barely breathe.
