My name is Laura. My husband, Mark, and I have one child, our son, Daniel. He’s 23. Emma is 22.
Or I suppose I should say she was Daniel’s girlfriend.
They started dating at sixteen. Seven years. Somewhere along the way, we stopped thinking of her as the girl Daniel brought around. She was just Emma.
She had her own stocking on our mantel at Christmas. She knew where I kept the spare towels. She stood beside me every Thanksgiving, peeling potatoes and stealing bites of stuffing. Her parents came to our barbecue every summer.
When Daniel’s grandmother died, Emma sat next to him through the entire funeral and never let go of his hand. When she got accepted into the university’s dance program, Daniel showed up with flowers and acted more excited than she did.
I assumed they’d get married. Everyone did.
Then Daniel crashed his motorcycle.
