At least, that was what I thought.
The morning everything began, I was sitting beside my daughter Lisa’s hospital bed, gently brushing her dark hair away from her face. Even in a coma, she was still my girl. Still nineteen. Still the child who hated tangled hair and loved yellow raincoats because she said they made gloomy days feel hopeful.
The doctors had already warned me. The rehabilitation program that offered her best chance of recovery required a deposit I couldn’t afford.
