Ben and I had eight children—five girls and three boys—and our home was always full of noise, chaos, and life. It was exhausting, but I loved every second of it.

When our sons grew older, Ben began taking them on special father-and-son trips to a secluded cabin in the woods, a place he had inherited from his grandfather. It became their tradition.

Five years ago, I stood outside, waving as they left for one of those weekends.

I didn’t know it would be the last time I ever saw them.

Later that day, I was standing at the kitchen sink, watching the rain fall, when a police car pulled into our driveway. At first, I didn’t think much of it—our friend Aaron was an officer and sometimes stopped by.

But the moment I opened the door and saw his face, I knew something was terribly wrong.

“I’m so sorry, Carly,” he said, his eyes red. “There’s been an accident.”

I couldn’t understand what he meant—not until he held my hands and told me the truth that shattered everything.

Ben’s SUV had gone off a cliff during the storm and rolled. There were no survivors.

“No,” I whispered. “He knows that road. He always checks the weather.”

Aaron nodded grimly. “I know.”

It didn’t make sense. Had Ben really made such a mistake?