For the first few months I tortured myself with replaying events from the beginning, what I might have said or done differently, in the end it doesn't matter, dead is dead and you can't recover spilled blood. Well meaning people walk up and ask how you doing so you lie and say you are ok, but inside it's all broken glass. They say things like "you'll get over it" not realizing how cruel that is when "it" refers to you only child. No, there's no getting over "it". You do however get used to waking up in shock and horror even years later as reality rushes in after a comforting dream where your child suddenly appears healthy and full of life. You get used to that hollow ache when you see other Men greeting their daughter and holding their grandchildren. One friend complained to me about her daughter asking for money. I commented I would love to hear my daughter ask for money. They were in the middle of a squabble over her daughter having an empty gas tank. The teenager had illegally parked her car on the sidewalk as well blocking me in my driveway. The girl was furious and on the verge of tears after running an errand for her mother. I kindly told her police patrolled our street with a vengeance and she should move it to the rear drive off the alley. In frustration she tossed her keys to me and curtly told me to move it myself. I drove to the gas station a block away, filled the tank, parked in the rear drive and returned her keys to her commenting that her fuel gauge wasn't working properly. It didn't really matter she could barely bring herself to show some gratitude later. It wasn't for her I did it.