They couldn’t be saying that my little girl was going to die — and that it was my fault?

As told by Levi Millman to Malkie Schulman

"Shana,” I called to my three-year-old as I made my way around the car. “Shana?”

I didn’t see her — until I looked down and spotted her bright orange jacket, wavy blonde hair, and two huge O-shaped blue eyes glazed in fear and pain. She was pinned beneath the tire of a white minivan that was backing out next to our car.

My little girl was seconds away from being crushed.

“Stop backing out — move up!” I screamed, frantically waving my hands in a forward motion.

The driver heard me, saw me — thankfully — and slowly inched the car forward as I ran to pull Shana out from under the tire. (I learned afterward that had the parking lot been paved with asphalt, I would not have been able to do so; the sand and gravel ground allowed for a flexible, cushioning effect.)

It was Hoshana Rabbah 2000. We had stopped at a farm stand for fresh fruits and vegetables on the way to a park not far from our home in Chicago, Illinois. When my wife was just about finished paying, I went ahead to load Shana and 18-month-old Rachel into the car. I buckled Rachel in, assuming Shana was still standing at my side, waiting to be put into her car seat. But Shana had gone around the car to play with the sand and gravel, and when I turned to pick her up and didn’t see her, I figured she must have walked to the other side. She did — but disaster struck.