I slammed the phone onto the counter, probably breaking it, and put my head in my hands and cried. Ryan was gone, and this time, he wouldn’t be coming back. At that moment in time, I hated drunk drivers more than anything in the world. Cold, uncaring hospital workers came in a close second.

And now I had to tell my little girl that her daddy would never be coming home.

“Mommy, what’s wrong?” I jerked up, and looked at little Ava, who had crept into the kitchen unnoticed, her big brown eyes concerned. “Grown-ups aren’t sposed to cry!”

I hesitated, unsure how to break the news to her, not knowing how to explain to my four-year-old all the tragedy that comes with death.

A huge smile blossomed on Ava’s face as an idea popped into her head. “I know! We can call Daddy! He’s good at making things all better.”

I felt as if my heart had torn into a million tiny pieces.