Then I saw her standing on my doorstep. “My name is Tiffany,” she said, nervously twisting her fingers.
She explained that she was the daughter of the woman whose car had crossed the line and crashed into mine, the mother who hadn’t survived despite surgeries and long nights in intensive care.
Tiffany had spent those evenings wandering the hospital halls, unable to face going home alone, and watching me fight had given her hope that her own mother might survive.
Then she placed something in my hand—a necklace, my grandmother’s, the one I had believed was lost forever in the crash. She had found it and kept it safe, afraid it might disappear.
