Jones, Isabelle was still at her father’s home in Birchwood while my daughter stumbled down the sidewalk bleeding, missing one shoe, with blood running from her ear.

The doctors told me Maya had suffered a moderate concussion.

Possibly something worse.

They were still conducting scans.

I heard every word.

None of it felt real.

My life was supposed to be ordinary.

Soccer practice.

Burned pancakes on Saturday mornings.

Stepping on Lego bricks in the dark.

Not this.

Not my little girl lying behind a hospital curtain with half her face swollen and purple.

Then the doctor finally approached.

“Mr.