The year was 1948. What a refreshing and burdenless year that was. We had gotten out of the war, and Xavier and I settled down and had three children. One was named Anna after my best friend who had brought Xavier and I together. One was named Timothy, and the last was named Rachelle. Anna was four years old, Timothy was two, and Rachelle was six months old at the time. I was training to become a psychologist, so I obviously had to study my childrens' behavior. Anna seemed to be the most logical of the three. She was mathematical and decisive. She reminded me of her father. However, Timothy seemed more like me. He was creative, loving, caring, and very artistic. Rachelle, however, was too young for me to try and figure out what type of personality she had. We all lived in a small town in Virginia called Kentin. It was always so beautiful there. The sun was always out, the birds chirped constantly, and the grass was always green. Oh, how I miss those days before the accidents that were to come.

Eight months after Rachelle was born, my mother died. She was in an airplane crash that killed one hundred twenty-three people; she died on her way to see me. I'll never forget that day. March 21st. I will never stop feeling guilty of her death. All I wanted her to do was see her newest grandchild, but she hesitated. She did not want to leave my father alone in the house especially considering that he had dementia. If it weren't for me pushing her to go, she probably would have lived a longer life than the one she did. I had no idea what I was going to do with my father. After Teri, he could not stand to hear that another one of his precious loved ones died. He was far too emotionally frail to hear that Mom died, but the truth always has to come out. Doesn't it?