I met Greg at 29, both ready for a stable life. He liked that I was grounded; I appreciated how he truly listened. We married within a year, and two years later, our daughter Maggie was born.
After maternity leave, I returned to work. Leaving Maggie hurt, but Greg was supportive. Before a business trip, I kissed Maggie goodbye, promising to return soon. But the plane I boarded crashed mid-flight.
I woke months later, injured and alone, in the care of Clara, an indigenous woman. She told me I had been unconscious for three months. My baby wouldn’t even recognize me. Clara helped me recover, and two months later, I set off to find my way home.
When I finally returned, a woman named Stephanie greeted me, claiming to be Greg’s wife. Greg hadn’t answered any of my calls. Mrs. Thompson, my neighbor, revealed that Greg had replaced me and moved my mother into a nursing home. My heart sank.
At the insurance office, I learned Greg had collected my death payout and opened a joint account with Stephanie. My lawyer discovered evidence of insurance fraud, document forgery, and abuse of my mother. I fought for custody of Maggie, determined not to be erased from my own life.
In court, the judge granted me full custody of Maggie. Greg faced criminal charges, and Stephanie disappeared. I reunited with my daughter, and after a year, our home was filled with light again. Greg pleaded guilty, and I used the recovered insurance money to support remote communities like Clara’s.
Some endings are written for you, but survival is about reclaiming what’s yours. Every night, I tell Maggie the story of how I came back from the dead to find her—and how nothing could ever keep me away.
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