After a drunk driver took my husband and both of my children, I stood trembling in the hospital parking lot and called my parents, barely able to keep the phone in my hand. My father listened in silence, then said, “It’s Jessica’s birthday today. We can’t come.”

Bears.

Emma would have loved that.

One year after the accident, I stood beside their graves with the foundation’s first annual report in my hands.

One thousand families helped.

I placed fresh flowers beside Michael.

Then Emma.

Then Noah.

“We did it,” I whispered. “Your daddy’s plan worked.”

I told Emma about the music therapy program.

I told Noah about the continue reading …