I insisted on an independent board.
Margaret joined as a family representative.
A pediatric trauma physician joined.
So did a highway-safety researcher and a nonprofit attorney.
I refused to control every vote.
Ethan had always teased me for reading instructions before assembling
anything.
“Someone wrote them for a reason,” I used to say.
Grief had not changed that.
If Lily and Noah’s names were going onto an organization, it would be
real.
Audited.
Transparent.
Useful.
Not a monument to my pain.
PART 5 — MOM COMES TO THE DOOR
My mother arrived without warning three days after the article.
I saw her through the doorbell camera.
She held a casserole.
For a second, I was six years old again.
Then I remembered three caskets.
I opened the door but did not invite her inside.
“Claire.”
“Mom.”
Her eyes filled.
“I’ve been so worried.”
“You knew where I lived.”
She flinched.
