Two years ago, a drunk driver killed my husband, Mark, and our teenage children, Emily and Josh. Since that night, I haven’t truly lived—just moved through a silent house filled with memories. Mark and I had met in college after he accidentally set off a fire alarm in cooking class. We built a simple, happy life—burnt toast, crayons, laughter. Then one pizza run ended it all. His last words to me were, “Always.”
I withdrew from the world until a flyer for a Halloween costume drive at a children’s shelter caught my eye. I went to the attic and found the costumes I’d sewn—Emily’s bumblebee wings, Josh’s firefighter suit. I donated them, then collected more from neighbors.
At the shelter, I saw a little girl wearing Emily’s bumblebee costume. She hugged me, thanked me, and softly asked, “Maybe you could be my mom?” We were both alone.
I began the adoption process, and in time she became my daughter. She’s eight now—bright, joyful, and filling the house with life again. I still carry my grief, but loving her has helped me live, not just exist.