I'd arrived.
I'd seen her.
I'd helped the rescuers get her out when they asked.
But Evan was dead.
And the only thing I could hear was my daughter asking why I hadn't saved him too.
For a long time afterward, I believed the worst thing about that night was losing Evan.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was what happened to the people who survived.
At the hospital, Mara wouldn't let me sit beside her bed.
She had a fractured collarbone, several cuts, and bruising from the crash. The doctors expected her to recover physically, but she was devastated by Evan's death. She spent much of the first night refusing food, turning away from nurses, and asking questions nobody could answer.
I waited in the hallway with my vest still wet from the storm.
Every time someone opened the door, I looked up.
Every time the nurse told me Mara needed rest, I nodded and sat down again. I understood she was grieving, but I couldn't stop imagining my little girl lying alone, afraid and injured.
The next morning, a doctor came to speak with me.
He explained her injuries and the treatment plan. Then, after asking whether Mara had given permission to discuss it, he told me something that changed the way I understood everything.
Mara was pregnant.
Only a few weeks along.
She had known before the trip but hadn't told me yet.
I stared at him.
For a moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I sat down because my legs wouldn't hold me.
My daughter was carrying a baby.
Evan's baby.
A child he would never meet.
I wanted to be happy. Wanted to imagine holding another tiny hand, teaching someone to ride a bicycle, watching Mara become the kind of mother Linda had been.
But all I could think was that a child was entering a world where one parent had already been taken away.
When Mara finally agreed to see me, I entered her hospital room quietly.
She was lying on her side, looking toward the window.
Her face was pale.
I stopped beside the bed.
“Sweetheart?”
She closed her eyes.
For several seconds, she didn't answer.
Then whispered, “Please don't call me that.”
I felt as though she'd struck me.
I pulled a chair closer but didn't sit.
“I heard about the baby.”
Her expression tightened.
“I know.”
“Mara…”
“Don't.”
I stopped.
For a moment, I couldn't think of anything useful to say.
Then I tried the only truth I had.
“I'm sorry.”
She turned toward me.
Tears filled her eyes.
“Are you?”
I swallowed.
“More than I can explain.”