In the Shadow of Loss

You know, I’ve never really talked about that day, not in detail. It’s like the words get stuck somewhere between my throat and my heart, and I don’t know if they’ll ever make it out in one piece. But I trust you, and I guess if there’s anyone I’d want to share this with, it’s you. So here goes.

It was a Sunday, one of those perfect autumn days when the sky is this deep blue, and the trees are on fire with reds and oranges. We were all together, the four of us—my mom, dad, sister, and me. We had gone out to the countryside for a picnic, something we didn’t do nearly enough. I remember how happy everyone seemed that morning, how light everything felt, like nothing could ever go wrong.

We packed up in the late afternoon, the sun starting to dip but still hanging there, casting this golden glow over everything. My dad was driving, and Mom was in the passenger seat. My sister, Claire, and I were in the back. She was 10, three years younger than me, and still had that innocent view of the world. She was leaning her head on my shoulder, half asleep, as we drove home. I had my earphones in, listening to some random playlist, and I remember glancing out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

The road was quiet, one of those backroads where you hardly ever see another car. But then, out of nowhere, this truck appeared, swerving into our lane. Everything happened so fast, but in that split second, time also seemed to slow down, like one of those movie scenes where you can see every detail.

Dad tried to swerve, to avoid the truck, but it was too late. The sound was the worst part—the screeching tires, the crunch of metal, the shattering glass. Then, nothing. Just darkness.

When I came to, everything was quiet. Too quiet. My head was throbbing, and I felt this crushing weight on my chest. I opened my eyes, but everything was blurred, like I was underwater. It took me a few seconds to realize I was still in the car, but it wasn’t right. We were upside down, and I was hanging from my seatbelt. I started to panic, trying to move, to get out, but my body wouldn’t cooperate.

Then I heard it—a faint groan from the front seat. My mom. I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to unbuckle myself and crawl through the broken glass to her. She was trapped, pinned by the dashboard, and she was barely conscious. I called her name, over and over, but she didn’t respond. There was blood everywhere, and the smell of gasoline filled the air.

I tried to get to my dad, who was slumped over the steering wheel, but he wasn’t moving at all. I shook him, screamed his name, but nothing. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. I felt so helpless, so small.

Then I remembered Claire. I scrambled back to the rear of the car, where she was still buckled in. She looked like she was sleeping, so peaceful, but when I touched her, she was cold. I shook her, harder than I should have, but she didn’t wake up. That’s when I knew. I knew they were all gone.

The next few hours are a blur. Someone must have called for help because, eventually, there were paramedics, firefighters, police—all these strangers swarming around us. They pulled me out, put me on a stretcher, and tried to ask me questions, but I couldn’t speak. I just kept looking back at the car, hoping somehow they’d get them out, that they’d be okay.

But they weren’t. The doctors told me later that my dad and Claire died on impact, that they didn’t feel any pain. Mom held on for a while longer, but her injuries were too severe. They said she slipped away before they could get her to the hospital.

I don’t remember much about the days that followed. There were funerals, people coming and going, saying how sorry they were, how strong I was. But I didn’t feel strong. I felt numb, like I was moving through a fog. Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that car, hearing the crash, seeing their faces.

It’s been years now, but it still feels like it happened yesterday. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever really move on, if the weight of it will ever lift. People say time heals, but I think it just teaches you how to carry the pain differently. It’s always there, just beneath the surface.

I miss them every day. I miss my dad’s terrible jokes, the way my mom would hum when she cooked, the way Claire would curl up next to me when she was scared. They were my world, and in one moment, that world was shattered.