I’m 70 now. Twenty years ago, my son, his wife, and their two children hugged me goodbye after a Christmas visit and started the drive back home.
Somewhere along a quiet country road, their car lost control and slid into a stand of trees.
Only one person survived: my granddaughter, Emily.
She was five.
Doctors used the word “miracle.” The police did too. And the pastor, standing in front of three closed caskets, spoke the same way—trying to find comfort in a moment that didn’t have much to offer.
The Days After: Silence as Survival
Emily came away with injuries that took time to heal: a concussion, broken ribs, and dark bruising from the seat belt that likely saved her life. The professionals told me she didn’t remember much—only “confusion” and a few scattered “fragments.”
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