The memory jars me, and an instant later I see another image.

My Daddy tying my hair in pigtails, tugging playfully at each one, telling me I’m his little princess.

I grip my head tighter as the pleasant memory dissipates into something frightening.

My father is covered in blood, his eyes are cracked open—lifeless—and I watch, helplessly, as the color drains from his face.

This can’t be happening. He can’t be gone … he just can’t. I didn’t get to say goodbye. A deep groan rumbles through my chest at the thought of never getting to see him again, or hug him, or tell him I love him. “Ple—ase,“ I beg, hiccupping through the sobs.

“I know, baby. I know.” This time I recognize my mom’s sweet voice, and I fist my hands in her shirt and hold on for dear life.

I have no idea how long we sit here and cry. Minutes … maybe hours. But I eventually cry myself to sleep, and when I wake up some time later, the room is dark, lit only by the dull glow of the moon filtering through the window. At some point during the night, everyone must have switched places because Mom and Bailey are both asleep with their heads on the bed at either side of my body. Bailey’s arm is stretched across my legs as though she’s holding on to me, and I reach out a hand and brush it softly across her forehead. Wyatt is passed out in the recliner next to my bed, his head propped awkwardly on a rolled-up sweatshirt.

Stretching my arms above my head, I let out a big yawn. My heavy lids bob several times as my sleep-induced fog lifts, and within seconds, I’m being slapped in the face with a heavy dose of reality.

My nose burns with impending tears, and I take a deep breath to try and hold myself together—if only for a minute. And really it’s only a couple of seconds. Bending forward, I bury my face in my hands and I bawl. My chest physically aches, and if hearts can truly break, then mine has been demolished. The thought of not seeing my dad every day scares the living shit out of me. He was the first man to ever love me, and knowing that he’s gone—knowing that he’ll never walk me down the aisle or teach my kids how to saddle a horse—is devastating. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try and remember everything about him that I possibly can because suddenly I feel the need to catalog every memory.

Christopher Devora was a bear of man. Six foot two and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. His thick hair was the most beautiful shade of silver, but you never would’ve known it because he refused to go anywhere without his Stetson. I’ve been told countless times that my rich chocolate eyes are the exact replicate of his, and I’ve always taken that as a compliment.

He was so much more than just my dad—and he was an amazing dad—he was also my best friend. Sure, I was close with my mom, but growing up I was a daddy’s girl through and through. Dresses and makeup? No, thank you! Most days you would find me in a ball cap and cowboy boots, raising hell on the farm. Everything he did, I did, and not once did he make me feel like I couldn’t do something just because I was a girl. By the time I was twelve, I was helping him break horses, mend fences and I could change the oil in every tractor, four-wheeler and snowmobile in our shed.

“Katie?”

I look up, wiping the tears from my face, and find my mom watching me.

“How long have you been awake?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. Her eyes are still bloodshot and puffy—from all the crying, no doubt. I can’t even imagine the hell she’s gone through.

I lean back on the bed. “Not long. Ten or fifteen minutes.”

Nodding her head, she offers me a tremulous smile. “You were thinking about him,” she observes, already knowing the answer.

“What day is it?” I ask, trying to divert the conversation. My emotions are too raw and I’m not ready to talk about him yet. Or maybe somewhere in the back of my mind I’ve convinced myself that if we don’t talk about it, it isn’t true.

“It’s Saturday night,” she sighs, running a hand over her tired eyes. “God, Katie—” Looking up at the ceiling, she blows out a long, slow breath and then her glossy eyes find mine. “The past forty-eight hours have been hell. After the accident, you didn’t wake up and I was scared out of my mind. At first, they didn’t know the extent of your injuries, so they were running tests and scans. But all I knew is that you weren’t waking up, and I … we had lost so much. I just knew I wouldn’t survive if I lost you too.” The look of sorrow on her face is too much to handle and I instinctively reach for her, pulling her against my chest.

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” She buries her face in the side of my neck and wails. “I can’t live without him, Katie, I can’t.” Her body shakes against mine, her tears running hot down the side of my neck, and I tighten my grip around her small frame, silently promising to help her get through this. He may have been my dad, but he was her husband … the love of her life … her soul mate. They were supposed to retire and grow old together.

“I’m so sorry, Mama,” I cry, desperate for her forgiveness. It should’ve been me. I should’ve been the one to die. I was supposed to drive that night, not Daddy. Guilt settles in my gut, shame prickling my skin, and I swallow past the bile rising in my throat. “This is my fault.” She pulls back, shaking her head from side to side.

“No, Katie.” Her soft hand brushes the wetness from my face, and this time she gathers me in her arms and pulls me to her chest. “This is not your fault, sweetie. There is nothing you could have done.” I open mouth to argue with her, but she doesn’t give me the chance. “You guys were hit by a drunk driver.”

“What?” I gasp, pulling out of her arms. I vaguely recall being hit by another car, but I had no idea who it was or even how it happened. “Did the other person survive?”

Mom nods her head. “He survived. We don’t know much more than that.”

Emotion clogs my throat. “He should’ve died,” I choke out over a sob. “Not Daddy. It should’ve been him.” Or me, I think to myself, it should’ve been me.

There is no way to explain it, but the thought of this man—this drunk man—still living and breathing makes me physically ill. It isn’t right, and it sure as hell isn’t fair. He should be the one taken away from his family—not Dad.

Anger seeps into my body. I try to fight it—try to push it away—but it feels so much better to be mad at him than to feel this gut-wrenching pain. So I let the anger infiltrate my soul, and I let it dull my pain.

“Even My Dad Does Sometimes” – Ed Sheeran

“BREAKFAST IS READY.”

I jump at the sound of Bailey’s soft voice. The shovel slips from my grip, but I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground. “Holy crap,” I breathe, my hand clenched above my heart when I turn to face her. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” she says, yawning. Tucking her hands in her coat pockets, her feet shuffle against the ground and she yawns again before sitting on one of the straw bales in the corner. My brows furrow and I cock my head to the side. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen my baby sister up before ten o’clock in the morning, and I sure as hell can’t remember the last time I saw her step foot in this dirty barn.

Bailey and I are eight years apart, and when we were growing up, I always used to joke with her that she was an ‘oops’ baby. Of course she wasn’t, but I was older so it was my duty to pick on her. Despite our difference in age and my occasional need to make her cry, Bailey and I have always had a great relationship. I’ve always been the tomboy, never afraid of dirt and hard work, and Bailey has always been the girly-girl, in love with designer clothes, manicured nails and makeup. While I spent hours out in the barn or the field helping Daddy, she sat inside having tea parties and playing with her Barbies. We’ve always been complete opposites, but best friends nonetheless.