Some mornings I wake up and forget for just a split second that my daughter is gone. Then it hits me all over again like a freight train—I will never hear her laugh again, never see her walk through the door, never watch her tuck her own baby girl into bed.

Being a mother doesn’t stop when your child dies. My love for Megan didn’t die with her. It only grows heavier, deeper, harder to carry because she’s not here to feel it. I ache with all the things I can’t give her anymore.

I don’t want anyone to ever think this is something you “get over.” There is no moving on from burying your child. There is only surviving it. Some days that survival feels impossible.

I would give anything—every breath left in me—for one more day with her. But I can’t. So instead I fight. I speak her name. I beg for justice. I hold onto the hope that her story can save someone else’s child.

Megan was more than a headline, more than a statistic, more than a case file gathering dust. She was my daughter. My best friend. My baby girl. And the world is darker without her.

Please don’t forget her. Please don’t stop saying her name.