Five years ago, I was the happiest I had ever been.

My husband, Matt, and I had spent years trying for a child, enduring endless doctor visits, invasive tests, and heartbreak. When the doctors told us it wasn’t likely I could conceive, I was devastated.

But Matt held me through it all, promising we would build a family another way.

That’s how Emily came into our lives.

She was seven years old, with big, hopeful eyes and a hesitant smile that melted my heart. From the moment we brought her home, our house seemed to glow with new energy. We threw a small welcome party, decorated her room with bright colors, and took her on a family trip to the zoo.

“Do you think she’ll like the zoo?” Matt asked me.

“I think so,” I said. “But more than that, she needs to know that we’re a family and that we’re going to take her out and be a family, Matt.”

I’ll never forget how she giggled when a giraffe reached across and licked her ice cream.

For the first time in years, I felt complete.

And then, the unthinkable happened: I got pregnant.

It felt like a dream. Our son, Ben, was born a year later. The miracle of his birth added another layer of joy to our home. And my goodness, Emily loved being a big sister and took her role very seriously.

She would hold Ben’s tiny hand, read to him, and teach him silly songs. For five years, our home was filled with laughter, bedtime stories, and the beautiful chaos of family life.

“I’m just the happiest woman in the world,” I told Matt one night when we watched Ben sleep. Emily was cradled in Matt’s arms, and held onto him tightly, as if even in her sleep, she needed to be close to us.

But then, five years later, the accident happened.

Emily was walking home from school when it happened. I wasn’t there, but Matt called me, his voice shaking, saying that she’d been hit by a car.