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“Martha Rios, five years.” Those words tore me apart when I read them in the file. As a coroner, I had to maintain my professional composure, but seeing the little girl's body under the white sheet was devastating.
With trembling hands, I combed her hair and dressed her in a delicate white gown. I needed her to look beautiful for her last goodbye. As I fixed her up, I couldn't help but talk to her as if she could still hear me.
-Today everyone will want to see you radiant, Martha.
Her peaceful face looked sleepy. I knelt beside her, consumed with guilt. Her mother was not there when the tragic accident occurred. But I was, trying to give a dignified farewell to my own daughter.
I adjusted an unruly lock behind her ear and then, the impossible happened:
-Thank you, Daddy, -her little voice whispered.
For an instant, my heart wanted to believe that Martha was there with me to say goodbye. I looked at her still little body and the tears I had been holding back welled up uncontrollably. The professional mask had broken.
I clutched her cold little hand, repeating that I did my best. But deep down, I knew that “thank you, Daddy” was his way of saying goodbye to me, his father. One last gift before the eternal goodbye.