“Grandma puts me in the freezer when I spill my juice,” my 7-year-old daughter sobbed in my arms. As I carried her to my heated truck, she gestured to a second, padlocked freezer hidden under my old boxes. “Don’t touch that one,” she whispered. “That’s where Grandpa went eight years ago…”

gone, melted away by the relentless warmth of a father’s love.

We had survived the ice. And in this house, the sun would never set again.

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