I was late.
That thought kept looping as I glanced at the dashboard and pressed harder on the gas. Friday nights always did this—work bleeding into evening, traffic grinding like it had a personal grudge, life stacking delays until you either learned to breathe through them… or broke.
Emma had picked the restaurant days ago.
“It’ll be nice,” she’d said. “Just us. Lily too. No phones. No rushing.”
She was right. Always right.
Halfway there, rehearsing my apology, my phone rang.
Not a text. Not a buzz. A sharp, cutting ring that sliced through the car like an alarm.
I answered.
“Ryan—” Emma’s voice cracked. “They hit our daughter.”
For a second, my brain refused to believe it.
“What? Emma, slow down. What do you mean hit her?”
“She’s on the floor. Ryan, please—just come. Please.”
The line filled with noise—voices, confusion, Lily crying. My chest went cold and heavy at the same time.
I didn’t remember deciding to turn around. My body just reacted. Red lights became decorations, traffic a blur. All I could see was Lily—her laugh, her stubborn confidence, the way she trusted the world.
When I pulled into the restaurant, I knew.
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