I arrived at the crime scene and saw my daughter.
She lay lifeless on the ground, her hair disheveled, her clothes torn.
But her hands clung tightly to the backpack pressed against her chest.
"My condolences," the coroner beside me offered.
I couldn't believe it. My feet felt weightless.
How could this be?
How could my daughter be gone so suddenly?
Just this morning, she was full of energy when I left for work.
I even told her I'd celebrate her birthday when I got back—her eighteenth birthday.
And now, here she was, lying on the ground, never to call me ' Mom' again.
"These are her belongings. We thought you might want to keep them. She clutched the backpack so tightly that we had to take everything out."
I mechanically took the transparent bag from the officer and pulled out the notebook inside.
Flipping to the page my daughter had carefully marked, I saw her neat, delicate handwriting, a reflection of her character.
"Today is my eighteenth birthday. Even though Dad said he's too busy to come back, I still want to see him. Let me be selfish just this once—I'll go see him. I promise not to disturb his work. I just want to hear him say 'Happy Birthday,' and then I'll come back."
"I really want to spend my birthday with Dad!"
Reading her words, I was already sobbing uncontrollably.
A month ago, my husband promised to celebrate Jennifer's birthday. She was so happy, eagerly anticipating the day.
But last night, he suddenly called, saying he couldn't come back today and told us to celebrate without him at home. He said he'd bring a gift when he returned.
"Jennifer, Mommy will make sure Daddy comes to see you one last time."