They couldn’t be saying that my little girl was going to die — and that it was my fault?
“Shana,” I called to my three-year-old as I made my way around the car. “Shana?”
I didn’t see her — until I looked down and spotted her bright orange jacket, wavy blonde hair, and two huge O-shaped blue eyes glazed in fear and pain. She was pinned beneath the tire of a white minivan that was backing out next to our car.
My little girl was seconds away from being crushed.
“Stop backing out — move up!” I screamed, frantically waving my hands in a forward motion.
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