They said I died in that plane crash. But I didn’t. I crawled out of a riverbed in the mountains, bruised and broken, after a kind soul found me.
I was nursed back to health, and five months later, I made it home to hold my baby. But when the door swung open, another woman stood there… in my place.
I met Greg when I was 29.
We were both over the dating games, wanted a home and a family. He said he liked that I was grounded, not flashy. I liked that he listened…
really listened like I mattered. We got married less than a year later, and two years after that, our baby Margaret (Maggie) came along, tiny and screaming.
My job had always been demanding, but I loved it. After maternity leave, I went back to work full-time.
It wasn’t easy. Leaving Maggie every morning made my chest hurt, but Greg was supportive.
When my company sent me abroad on business, I kissed my baby a hundred times. She giggled and held onto my finger like she didn’t want to let go.
I whispered, “Mama will be back soon, my sweet girl.” I left her in Greg’s arms and waved one last time from the car.
But I never got to my destination after boarding my flight.
One minute we were flying smooth. The next, the plane shuddered like something deep inside had snapped. Lights flickered and people screamed.
It felt like the whole aircraft was breaking apart.
“This can’t be happening,” I whispered, clutching the armrests. My thoughts raced to my baby daughter, just one year old now, and Greg waiting at home. The business trip to South America was supposed to be a routine week away, then back to my family.
The aircraft pitched sideways.
Screams filled the cabin. The last thing I remember was the flight attendant’s terrified eyes locking with mine before darkness swallowed everything.
***
Excruciating pain was my first sensation. My eyelids felt weighted as I forced them open to see dappled sunlight through a canopy of leaves.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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