Eighteen years after losing his daughter in a tragic amusement park accident, my husband, Abraham, asked the question I had dreaded: “How did you survive when my daughter didn’t?” His words forced me to confront a truth I had buried for nearly two decades.
I still can’t erase the memory of that day from my mind. Penny was just seven, the daughter of Abraham’s first marriage. We had gone to celebrate her birthday, and the sounds of her laughter still echo in my mind.
Last week would have been her 25th birthday—a milestone she never reached. Her loss haunts me, but so does a truth I’ve hidden from Abraham all these years.
I still avoid the cemetery where Penny is buried, especially in spring, when her grave is blanketed by flowers. Every time I touch her old clothes, kept in a cedar trunk, my hands tremble. Her tiny patched jeans, her favorite purple unicorn sweater, her ruffled socks—all these things still carry her presence.
Upstairs, my son Eric called for help with his college packing. Abraham and I joined him, surrounded by boxes filled with memories. Eric found Penny’s old teddy bear in the attic and brought it down. Abraham’s hand froze when he saw it, a reminder of Penny’s love for that bear. “She carried it everywhere,” he whispered, his voice tinged with sorrow.
The memories came flooding back—the way Penny’s birthday crown had slipped on her hair, her joy at the amusement park, and how she’d called me the best stepmom, saying she couldn’t wait to call me “Mom.” I didn’t know it would be the last time I’d hear those words.
Suddenly, Abraham noticed the dress I was wearing—the same one from that fateful day. His gaze sharpened as he asked, “After all these years, why keep it? Why hold onto anything from the worst day of our lives?”
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