On Losing a Daughter

The people we were died at the exact moment our child did.

- By Danielle Crittenden

My husband, David, hates Valentine’s Day.

He once called it “New Year's Eve with nuclear weapons.” I pretend not to care. Still, when the day passes entirely unremarked on, a woman can't help but feel over- looked. On Valentine's Day 2024, David found a way out. He booked a speech on February 14 that required traveling from our home in Wash- ington, D.C., to Toronto. I couldn't object—he was getting paid. Anyway, I had my own plans: an “anti-Valentine’s Day” dinner hosted by one of the foreign embassies.

As I got ready, I called our oldest daughter, Miranda. She answered from her Brooklyn bathroom, getting ready for her own party. She propped her phone up beside her sink and laughed when I told her about her father’s strategic Valentine’s Day escape.

I asked what she planned to wear. She sent a selfie: It showed her looking at her bathroom mirror; her straight rose-gold hair bobbed along her jawline. A strapless black top exposed her pale, delicate shoulders. (Too pale and delicate, I worried reflexively, maternally.)

“Stunning,” I texted back.

It was the last communication I’d ever have with her.

Two days later, I was coming down the stairs when David’s voice shattered the morning. Words tumbled out in fragments: Miranda’s best friend calling from the apartment. Found unconscious. Not breathing. Maybe—

I seized the phone from David’s shaking hand. I could hear a police officer’s radio chatter, the soundtrack to all urban tragedy.

“I’m sorry—” a voice began.

What is the opposite of giving birth?