When we were woken up to a knock on the front door.
At first we figured it was Daddy -- Mom probably locked the door on her way to bed and he had forgotten his key.
But after only a moment, we were aware that it wasn't him.
Mens' voices. Something about an accident. Drunk driving. Dead on impact? Who was dead on impact? Mom's gut-wrenching scream was enough to answer the question.
Immediately, we were out of bed and discovering Mom in the foyer, lying in a heap on the floor, sounds unlike anything I've ever heard coming from her mouth. A combination of sobs, screams, and gasps for air.
Knelt down beside her were two police officers. "We're very sorry, Mrs. Fitzpatrick," the one was saying, sounding as though he himself was trying hard to choke back tears.
It felt like forever before one of them looked up and noticed Harper and I, standing teary-eyed at the foot of the stairs, knowing that something terrible had happened.
As he gently approached us, I closed my stinging eyes and said a silent, frantic prayer.
Please don't let it be Daddy.
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