Wishful thoughts and goodnight kisses

Laughter fills the car. Daddy looks back at me through the rearview mirror, flashing a pearly white smile. It’s late, around 10 PM, and we’re on a last-minute grocery run for Mom’s cake, a fifteen-minute drive from our beach house. Lily, my sister, pipes up from the back, her voice bright. We're laughing because I refused to sing along to the obnoxious song on the radio.

"Party pooper," Lily says, turning to boop my nose.

"Daddy, just pay attention to the road," I say, rolling my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips. He winks back, and in that split second, Lily yells, "DADDY LOOK OUT!"

We swerve, tires screeching against the asphalt as the car spins. Another car hits us head-on, our tiny Toyota flipping until we land upside down.

"Girls?" Daddy asks.

"Here," Lily replies.

"I'm okay," I respond. Then, another hit. We flip three more times, landing on our side. Silence. I struggle against my seatbelt, vision tunneling, fading in and out. The last thing I remember are the sirens.

Beep beep beep. I jerk awake, drenched in cold sweat, my face stained with dried tears. Beep beep beep. I sigh and turn off my 5:30 alarm. Next to it, a picture of my dad giving a three-year-old me a piggyback ride.

"Another day, daddy. I love you."

I drag myself out of bed, feet hitting the cold hardwood, to get ready for school.