No Second Chances for the Bride

The moment the trauma team wheeled both of my parents through the red double doors of the ICU, my hands were shaking so hard I could barely tap my phone screen. I photographed the doctor’s signed resuscitation consent forms—the ones stamped Critical / Imminent Risk of Death—and dropped them straight into our four-person group chat.

Serena, my fiancée. Justin, the guy I’d treated like a younger brother for three years. Brooke, my childhood neighbor who had grown up on the other side of my backyard fence.

All three icons showed active. None of them asked how bad the crash was.