They said I died in a plane crash, but I didn’t. I crawled out of a river, bruised and broken, and was nursed back to health by Clara, an indigenous woman in the mountains. Five months later, I returned home, only to find another woman in my place.
I met Greg at 29, both tired of the dating scene and wanting a family. We married quickly, and our daughter, Maggie, came soon after. My job kept me busy, but Greg was supportive. When I left for a business trip, I kissed Maggie goodbye, never imagining I wouldn’t return.
The flight was smooth until it wasn’t—then chaos. The last thing I remember was the flight attendant’s terrified eyes before darkness took over.
I woke in Clara’s home, severely injured and unaware I’d been unconscious for three months. Clara told me Greg must think I was dead. I struggled to heal, but Clara gave me strength. Two months later, I was able to walk again, and with Clara’s help, I made my way back to civilization.
When I reached the embassy, Greg didn’t answer his phone. It was as if I never existed. I finally made it home, only to be confronted by a woman in a robe, claiming to be Greg’s wife.
She said I had died, but I hadn’t. Greg had moved on quickly. My mother was in a care facility, and Maggie, my daughter, was living with them. Everything had changed, and it felt like a cruel joke.
I discovered Greg had claimed a $750,000 insurance payout, citing my death, and moved on with Stephanie. I fought for custody of Maggie, and after presenting evidence in court, I won. Greg faced criminal charges, and Stephanie disappeared.
Maggie, now older, slowly recognized me, and we began rebuilding our life together. I also rescued my mother, proving the world couldn’t erase me.
A year later, Maggie asks me to tell the story again—of how I came back from the dead to find her. And I remind her: nothing could keep me away.