The brass knocker struck the front door three times, sharp and demanding, echoing through the empty rooms of my two-story house in Glen Allen.
Outside, dusk had turned the sky the bruised purple of an oncoming snowstorm.
Through the frosted sidelight, I saw my father, Arthur Hayes, bundled in his camel-hair overcoat, stamping his polished leather loafers on the welcome mat.
Flanking him stood my mother, Evelyn, clutching her alligator-skin purse against her chest, and Melissa, draped in a white wool cape with her diamond engagement ring catching the glare of the porch fixture.
Six months had passed since the gravel had hit Ethan’s, Lily’s, and Noah’s mahogany vaults.
Six months since Arthur told me a private room reservation at an upscale Richmond steakhouse could not be rearranged for three funerals.
My phone on the kitchen island was still vibrating with frantic texts and voicemails from uncles, cousins, and distant in-laws who had forgotten my address until the Associated Press wire ran at dawn: WIDOW OF I-95 CRASH VICTIMS AWARDED $18.7 MILLION IN SETTLEMENT; ANNOUNCES CHILD SAFETY FOUNDATION.
