I never imagined it would matter like this.
She had remembered those digits while cold, lost, and trying to protect her little sister.
I ran.
Everything between that phone call and seeing them blurred.
Then I was there.
My three-year-old was being warmed and monitored.
My eight-year-old was under blankets.
Her cheeks were bright from the cold.
Her hands shook.
I watched her eyes open.
There are questions you expect from children around Christmas.
Did Santa come?
Where are the presents?
Can we go home?
She asked about her father.
“Is Daddy okay?”
Her own body had failed her in the cold.
Her little sister had collapsed.
And she was worried about him.
I had to hold myself together.
Then she told me Grandma wouldn’t let them stay.
At first, even that sentence didn’t fit.
My parents’ house.
My children.
Christmas.
A father in the hospital.
What possible misunderstanding could end with an eight-year-old and a three-year-old outside alone?
So I asked her to start at the beginning.
She had done what I told her.
Walk to the door.
Knock.
Wait for Grandma.
My mother opened it.
She looked at both children.
Then she said I should have asked first.
That was apparently the issue.
I hadn’t called ahead.
My daughter tried to explain.
Daddy was in the hospital.
