I was too young to understand death.
For months, I waited for her.
I would hear a car stopping outside and run toward the front door, convinced she had returned.
But she never did.
My father, George, raised me alone. He was a quiet man who worked long hours, cooked simple meals, and did everything he could to make sure I never felt completely alone.
He rarely spoke about my mother’s past.
Whenever I asked questions, he would smile sadly and change the subject.
At the time, I assumed it was because remembering her hurt too much.
Emily, on the other hand, had grown up with a completely different childhood.
She had been adopted when she was very young by a loving couple, Robert and Linda.
They gave her everything they could. She had a comfortable home, a good education, and parents who attended every school event.
They loved her deeply.
