My hands were still covered in gray dust when I called my parents from the hospital chapel.
I had no idea how to say the words.
My husband, Ethan, and our two children, seven-year-old Lily and four-year-old Noah, were gone.
A truck had crossed the median on Interstate 95 that morning and crashed into their vehicle.
Three lives had disappeared in a matter of seconds.
I was sitting alone in a hospital chapel, staring at my hands, when I called my parents.
I needed them.
Not money.
Not advice.
Not solutions.
I simply needed my mother and father to stand beside me while I buried my family.
My father answered.
But before I could speak, I heard music and laughter in the background.
Then I heard my sister Melissa.
She was talking about birthday candles.
My stomach dropped.
“Dad,” I whispered, “the funeral is Friday.”
There was a pause.
“I know,” he said.
“Please come. I can’t do this alone.”
My voice broke.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then my father sighed.
“Your mother’s in shock too. But Melissa’s birthday dinner has been planned for weeks.”
I thought I had misunderstood him.
“Dad, Ethan and the kids are dead.”
“I know.”
“Then please come.”
My mother finally came onto the phone.
She sounded tired.
“We’re devastated, sweetheart. We really are. But everything is happening at once.”
I closed my eyes.
“I need you.”
Another silence.
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