Three weeks after losing my daughter, I was moving through life as if underwater—slow, heavy, numb. Grief had split my world open, and nothing made sense anymore. The morning it happened, the fog outside the kitchen window hung low across the yard, blurring the edges of everything. I sat at the table in my husband’s sweatshirt, clutching a mug of cold coffee and trying to remember what it felt like to be a person before tragedy hollowed me out. My name is Erin. I’m forty. My daughter Lily was ten….CONTINUE READING IN BELOW
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