I still remember the exact sound of the knock.It was sharp, official, the kind that makes your stomach tighten before you even open the door.
Ten years ago, two police officers stood on my porch with their hats in their hands and pity already written across their faces. Before either of them spoke, I knew something terrible had happened. Mothers know. Grandmothers do too.
They told me my son, Daniel, and my daughter-in-law, Rebecca, had died in a car accident on a highway two counties away. Their vehicle had reportedly gone off the road late at night and caught fire. Identification, they said, had been difficult. The case had already been processed. It was a tragedy. They were sorry.