Eighteen years after losing his daughter in an amusement park accident, my husband asked me the question I feared most: “How did you survive the accident when my daughter didn’t?” The truth I’d buried for nearly two decades might be more than our hearts can bear. That tragic afternoon from 18 years ago still haunts me day and night. Penny, my husband Abraham’s daughter from a previous marriage, was just seven years old. She would have turned 25 last week, but fate had other plans. A tragic accident took her away right before my eyes. But it’s not the only thing that haunts me. I’ve been hiding a crushing truth about that day from my husband.

Sometimes, I still catch myself avoiding the cemetery on our way to the grocery store. The one where his little girl lies beneath the spring flowers. Every time I would see her old clothes, still preserved in the cedar chest upstairs, my fingers would tremble at the touch of them. Her purple sweater, the one with the unicorn print she insisted on wearing even in the summer, the tiny jeans with patches on the knees from all her adventures, and the little socks with ruffles she’d loved so much felt nostalgic. “Mom, where should I pack these books?” our 17-year-old son Eric called from upstairs.

I stood in front of the hallway mirror, smoothing down my favorite dress. The same dress I wore on that fateful day. “Coming, honey!” I replied, my voice catching slightly as I hurried up to help him pack for college. I found him in his room, surrounded by cardboard boxes and memories. Abraham was there too, carefully wrapping Eric’s high school trophies with newspaper. My heart swelled seeing them together — father and son, so alike in their careful movements and gentle spirits.

Abraham’s hands froze in the middle of wrapping. “Your sister loved that bear,” he said softly. “She used to take it everywhere. Remember how she’d sneak it to school in her backpack, Darcy?” “Even after her teacher said big girls don’t need teddy bears,” I whispered, remembering how fiercely she’d defended her furry friend. “She named him Mr. Butterscotch because of his color.” The memories flooded back, unstoppable now. It was Penny’s seventh birthday that fateful Saturday morning.

Her excited squeals as we pulled into the amusement park’s parking lot still echoed in my ears. The way she bounced in her car seat, her birthday crown slightly crooked on her glossy curls… God, how could I forget that? The morning sun had caught her silver heart locket, a special gift from her father. “Can we go on all the rides, Darcy? Please?” Her smile had been impossible to resist. “Daddy says I’m big enough now! I’m seven years old!”

“Birthday girl gets to choose,” I told her, watching her skip ahead of me toward the amusement park entrance. She’d worn her special birthday outfit — a ruffled white dress with a huge bow. Her white sneakers had butterflies lighting up on the sides. I remembered checking my watch. We had two hours until her surprise party back home. “Just a few rides, sweetie,” I’d said. “We’ve got another surprise waiting.” “Really? What kind of surprise?” She bounced on her toes, her hair dancing. “Is it a pony? Jenny got a pony for her birthday! Or maybe it’s that butterfly costume I saw at the mall?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?” I laughed, already picturing her face upon seeing the butterfly-themed party Abraham and I had planned. The cake with purple frosting was hidden in Mrs. Freddie’s fridge next door. “You’re the best stepmom ever! I can’t wait to call you my real mommy after you marry Daddy!” she declared, throwing her arms around my waist. I didn’t know then that it would be the last time I would feel her warmth.

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