I touched her cold skin and wiped away the blood around her eyes. Her beautiful eyes were still open, but now they held only a burning image of fear and pain. The stained pigments of her irises were disturbingly unfamiliar. I gazed at the blood that had pooled inside her ears. I tried to wipe away the blood from her braces. I kissed her cold lips several times. I whispered, “Mommy is here now.” I scanned every inch of her little body and traced the quarter-size bullet wound on her chest with my fingers. My mind raced in confusion as I tried to piece together the steps of how I might try to fix her, to bring her back. In an instant I knew life and time were distinct. I glanced at her face again in horror and disbelief. I ran my fingers through her beautiful, thick, honey-blonde hair. Then I covered the incision just under her heart with my hand, wishing somehow I could magically get it to beat, yearning to feel my child warm again. My healthy, vibrant daughter, whom I had embraced just a few hours before, and who was now foreign to my touch.

An unfamiliar woman’s voice in the background asked me not to touch my daughter, referring to her as “the evidence.” She has a name, an identity. Her name is Brooklynn. She is my child. I gave her life. And as swiftly as her life has been taken from me, so have my rights as a parent.

Brooklynn’s blazing bright light was extinguished in our Nevada hometown on Tuesday, June 4, 2013. After a half day, she walked across the street from the school to her best friend’s home to wait for my husband to pick her up. When he arrived, he found her struggling for air, choking on her body fluids. He attempted to breathe life back into her. The paramedics whisked her away to the hospital, but the hollow-point bullet had entered her back and ripped through her body before exiting her chest. The trauma team exhausted all life-saving efforts. No elixir could bring her back.

I was the first to arrive at the hospital and the first to be informed that Brooklynn did not survive. Still, I held onto hope. Hope that I would soon wake up from this nightmare. Chocolate ice cream was the last thing Brooklynn enjoyed on that hot sunny day. Even now, I recall the faint, alarming smell, the odd mixture of blood and chocolate stains on my husband’s shirt.

Brooklynn achieved many things. She was an honor-roll student and shared her love of learning, tutoring her younger sister, cousins, and neighborhood children. She was elected president of her elementary school. She loved sports and was an exceptional athlete. She was a competitive gymnast, placing first in several competitions, and a great dancer and performer, never afraid of the stage or a crowd. My girl could run! She could run a seven-minute mile, and liked outrunning the boys. She entered local charity runs, something we would do as a family when she wasn’t competing in gymnastics.

She embraced challenges; giving up on difficult tasks was not an option. Brooklynn’s older brother plays the violin beautifully. Brooklynn wanted to play as well, but she struggled with it. This only made her practice more diligently. It was not long before the high-pitched noises were replaced with soothing strumming.

Brooklynn loved all living things. She once nursed a dove’s broken wing back to health. I remember the expression of pure joy on her beautiful face watching it take flight. She wanted to own an animal rescue sanctuary. I couldn’t wait to see what she would accomplish.

Expand

Gun violence? That happens to other people. I was delusional in thinking that every gun owner is responsible enough to properly store their firearms. That’s because I’m one of those responsible gun owners. Brooklynn is dead because I failed to ask her friend’s parents two very important questions: Do you have a gun in the house, and is it safely secured?

The Glock had been left in a kitchen cabinet, loaded and chambered. Brooklynn’s friend accessed the gun while they were in the kitchen. There were no charges in Brooklynn’s death. It was ruled an accident.

This kind of tragedy is preventable, and it starts with the responsibility of adults. Our home state of Nevada is among 14 with child-access prevention laws that impose a weaker standard for criminal liability. Brooklynn’s death by an unsecured gun, and the complete failure of the justice system, was the catalyst for my husband and I to create the Brooklynn Mae Mohler Foundation. Our goal is to educate others, with the hope of preventing these senseless tragedies from affecting more families. No parent should ever have to endure this daily agony.

Gun Safety is a series about gun violence in America, with a new essay appearing each day until National Gun Violence Awareness Day, on June 2. To learn more about what you can do to prevent gun violence, and to participate in the Wear Orange campaign, go to WearOrange.org.