The day I buried my daughter, my sister threw a housewarming party.
Even now, writing that feels unreal.
Grief hollows you out, turning familiar rooms into empty shells. But standing by Nancy’s casket, I realized my family had chosen balloons, laughter, and champagne over soil, silence, and sorrow.
Nancy was seven. Eight days had passed since the crash. Seven.
The pastor spoke her name softly. I held my hands tight. Touching that casket again felt like I might never let go. Her teacher, neighbors, even the police were there. Her best friend clutched a trembling sunflower. But my family? Gone. My mother, cousins, my sister Rosie—nowhere in sight.
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