Henry stood at the graveside looking down at the settling pile of dirt. Only two weeks had gone by since he buried his daughter. He visited the grave each day, hoping it was a nightmare he might awaken from, but it wasn’t a dream. The truth and reality was that his little girl had been taken from him. He tortured himself with all of the might-have-beens and what-ifs.
Heartbroken, he didn’t see much of a way out from this. He kept coming to the same conclusion about coping with Mya’s loss. Nothing seemed to temper the sorrow. Nothing calmed the raging grief overtaking his mind. All of the things he didn’t say to her and all of the things he didn’t do haunted him continually; every moment of every hour of every day.