Wilona bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. William was beside her, leaning helplessly, his head on her shoulder. It felt heavy, but nothing compared to the pain that was gnawing at Wilona's heart again.
She harbored trauma. Accident was a deceptive word. Nothing good came from anything accidental, and bad things always lurked with every word, even the slightest, that was uttered. Accident is the worst word.
Wilona's hand moved, trembling, reaching for William's hand, which felt colder than ice, and rubbing it gently, trying to transfer body heat.
"She'll survive," Wilona said. She repeated it again, louder. "She'll definitely survive."
It was a mantra, whispered by Wilona to herself, as she tried to deny the reality of her little daughter—Maya—in a coffin lined with pink
