My four-year-old daughter, Emma, stood completely still for a moment—then suddenly rushed toward the pastor, shouting something that brought the entire room into stunned silence.

The pastor spoke with a firmness that surprised me and I appreciated it more than I can explain.

He said that what he heard from Emma was not confusion.

It was memory.

And that nobody was going to leave that funeral home pretending otherwise.

I was taken to the hospital because of the blow, and that’s where another level of horror began.

Because once the adrenaline wears off, the details come back in a row, demanding inventory.

The last shot.

The texture of the baby bottle.

Miriam’s insistence that we sleep.

The twins’ strange dream that night.

The absence of crying.