The call came at 6:17 p.m.
I remember the exact time because I had just sat down with a cup of tea when the phone rang. The voice on the other end was calm but urgent:
“Are you Emma Collins’ mother?”
My heart lurched. “Yes.”
“There’s been a car crash. Your daughter was hit leaving work. I pulled her from the vehicle and brought her to the ER. You need to come now.”
The cup slipped from my hand and shattered on the floor. I didn’t even look down. I grabbed my keys and drove, barely noticing the traffic lights or the tears blurring my vision.
At the hospital, everything was overwhelming—too bright, too loud. Nurses rushed past. Monitors beeped. The smell of antiseptic stung.
“She’s in surgery,” a doctor said gently. “Her condition is critical. Another vehicle slammed into hers and fled the scene. The impact was severe.”
The word critical echoed in my mind like a drumbeat.
And then I saw him.
Near the vending machines stood a tall man, shirt wrinkled and streaked with dirt, dried blood on his cuff. His face was pale but steady.
“You’re her mother,” he said softly.
