Sometimes I ignore the question, “Do you have children?” I change the subject. Sometimes I am answer vaguely, mysteriously, implying something other than the truth. Sometimes, I have only myself to blame, having invited the question by obliquely mentioning my daughter. Always, the issue is: Shall I acknowledge her death? Pretend for that moment that she lives on?

At a certain age in life, my age, people start talking about their grown children and grandchildren incessantly. At my book group gatherings, we spend only a few minutes talking about the chosen book, then turn to the more interesting topic of the exploits of their far-flung children and adorable grandchildren. I listen politely and say nothing. These women know my story. They were my neighbors who came to my aid when Becky died more than eight years ago in an accident on the other side of the earth.

When word came that Becky had died by falling down a cliff, they rushed to my home with food, to mow our lawn, to answer our phone, to help arrange the long journey home of her body. Yet, as they talk animatedly about their now thirty-something children, they forget. Suddenly, one remembers, and takes me aside and says softly to me that she is sorry, that this conversation must be hard. Yes, I answer, it is a reminder of what I have lost, but then again, I need no reminders. It is always with me.

With other people, especially at work, the newer friends do not know my history. Not uncommonly, they innocently ask if I have children. Should I say one? My one surviving stepdaughter? Or none, because stepchildren do not count as much in my heart? Or three, but two (including my stepson, who freakishly died three years after Becky) have died? One is the answer least likely to provoke a follow-up question.

Yet, I am determined not to let Becky’s memory vanish, so in casual conversations, if a memory of Becky pops up, I will mention it. Just as they do, regarding their kids. With close friends, the context is understood, even though it will awaken their own sadness. With acquaintances, my mention of Becky is unremarkable, although too often, they ask, “What is she doing now?” I have two answers. For complete strangers, I say, she is away and hope it ends there. For work colleagues, I will tell the truth, praying that they do not ask how she died.

That answer has always been given without emotion. Rote, though terrifying. In a sense, I have seen her die. The organization that sponsored her volunteer work in Micronesia, where she died, flew us there to see the spot where she perished and to meet her companions. So I saw the stream and pool and waterfall where it happened. Rather than bringing closure (that over-used word that is an impossibility), the sight left me with nightmares. Over and over, I see her slip down a muddy path to the pool, then across the slimy rocks, crying out, then falling down a waterfall to another pool 25 feel below, where ragged rocks smashed her skull.

I see that scene almost daily. My account to others leaves out the details. I do not mention that the uphill path from which she slipped was nothing but mud, with neither a rock nor even a clump of grass to grab. My telling does not include my judgment that her slide was predictable. My retellilng is short and matter of fact. But horrifying, nonetheless.

I do not tell them that I thought seriously of suing the organization, rejecting this only because of practical impediments. I do not tell them that I wrote a scathing letter to the director, telling her that I held them accountable for her death. The year before, another volunteer in their small group had died, this time when he motored to another island and was lost at sea. His mother, a devout Christian, wrote us a kind letter, which reminded me of the many people who said to us, “She is in a better place.” I do not agree but I keep my silence.

Each time I am asked the unanswerable question, I feel a knot in my gut. I may sound calm, I may sound like I have gotten over the worst of it. But the truth is, it only gets worse the longer I live without her.