Eighteen years ago, I was a woman drowning in a sea of silence. My name is Margaret, and at the time, I was flying back to my city to perform the most agonizing task a parent can face: burying my daughter and my young grandson, both taken in a sudden car accident. The world felt hollow, a gray expanse of grief where air was hard to come by. I sat in my plane seat, staring blankly at the seatback in front of me, barely aware of the rustle of passengers or the hum of the engines. That was until a...
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