But the truth was simpler.
I needed something that felt like home.
Sarah and I didn’t fall apart all at once.
We wore down.
Slowly.
Distance, exhaustion, too many conversations about schedules instead of feelings. By the time Emily turned twelve, we signed the papers without much of a fight.
But Emily stayed the same.
Every trip.
Every goodbye.
Snow went in the truck.
No exceptions.
Then everything changed.
It started small.
Bruises that didn’t make sense.
Tiredness that didn’t go away.
Then hospital visits.
Tests.
Words no parent is ever ready to hear.
Cancer.
Emily handled it better than any of us.
She joked with nurses. Named her IV pole “R2-Drip2.” Made us laugh when we didn’t want to.
One night, sitting under harsh hospital lights, she grabbed my hand and looked straight at me.
“Promise me something,” she said.
“Anything,” I told her.
“Keep driving.”
I shook my head. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are,” she said firmly. “Promise, Dad.”
There was no arguing with her.
So I promised.
Two weeks later, she was gone.
And that promise felt like it was carved into me.
After the funeral, I did something I’m not proud of.
I started throwing her things away.
Clothes. Drawings. Toys.
Stuffing everything into black trash bags like I could outrun the memories if I moved fast enough.
Sarah walked in and saw them by the door.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Surviving,” I said.
