My name is Margaret, and I never imagined life would unfold this way. I wasn’t born with unshakable strength; I grew into it. Most of my life was quiet, filled with bookshelves and order as I worked as a school librarian. I baked blueberry muffins every Friday and knitted blankets for every new baby at church. My world shifted when I lost my husband to cancer at forty-two. From then on, my only child, Anna, was the center of my life.
Anna had her father’s smile and my stubborn streak. By her late twenties, she had a career in marketing, a snug little home just down the street, and most importantly, a little boy named Ethan with wide brown eyes and curls that tumbled across his forehead. My grandson was the joy of my life.
Then came the call I’ll never forget. Anna had been on a flight one rainy afternoon when a mechanical failure caused the plane to crash. There were no survivors. One moment we were laughing on the phone about something Ethan said at preschool, and the next moment, she was gone forever.
I remember falling to the kitchen floor, a coffee mug shattering at my side. I didn’t even feel the glass cutting into my hand. I only whispered her name over and over, like saying it might bring her back.
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