Word Count: 256
Her husband worked on the eightieth floor of the World Trade Center in New York City on September 10, 2001. At 8:30 a.m. he was exiting the elevator and hurrying out the lobby to catch a cab to the airport. Briefcase in one hand, a Starbuck’s in the other, he sprinted across the street without seeing the car rushing to make the green light. He was killed instantly, spilling his coffee.
She was at the hospital by 10:47 a.m. where she identified his body and tearfully made arrangements for a funeral home to pick it up. She called her sister in New Jersey who came over within the hour. That evening, she was calm enough to explain to their two children, ages seven and twelve, that their father was dead. On September 11, she sat with the funeral director to plan out a simple service. He excused himself for a moment to answer a phone call. When he came back, he told her that the eightieth floor along with the rest of the Trade Center was gone.
There was a small obituary in their local paper. The driver of the car that hit him had limited coverage and no assets. A small life insurance policy helped make up for the loss of income but she still took a second job to cover the mortgage until she could move them to a smaller home outside the city. And every year on September 10th, she remembers how their lives were turned upside-down in just an instant.
