Meet Taryn, our youngest child. She was the surprise blessing who never got to nap because we needed to pick up her brother or sister. The one who learned to eat on the run because we were always running late for something. The one who got to travel, eat out and join the party well before her older siblings because she’d cry if we left her behind. The one who observed and considered and pondered life from the back of a minivan and had much to say when she finally began to talk … The one who is leaving for college in a few days.

When the first one goes, it’s exciting and nerve wracking and mind blowing that you’ve reached this stage, but if you’re lucky, there are younger ones at home who still need you and maybe now you’ll get through a whole dinner without someone leaving the table in tears because they were called a dumbassmoronloser.

Then the next child leaves and that’s exciting too, though the shock is not as great. You know the drill, you know they’ll survive and you know they’ll be home for Thanksgiving just about the time you clear out the closet from summer. Even better, the laundry pile no longer resembles a landfill.

But then it’s the baby’s turn to leave and though you know this day is coming, you tell everyone that it’s about time you got to walk through the front door without tripping over six pairs of boots and a pile of sweatshirts that have been there since Clinton was president, about time that you got to eat for dinner what you wanted, when you wanted, about time you got to relax in the evening without having to worry that someone was lying about not having any math homework. About time you got to watch TV without the sound being drowned out by kids who are crying, cursing or slamming doors all because somebody got punched in the arm for being an annoying brat.

The truth is, I’ve been telling everyone that I was ready for the peace and quiet. Ready for the clean house. Ready for the freedom to come and go as I pleased. But I lied.

A mother who has been on duty for twenty-six years, who has worried herself sick when her children were upset, who has shlepped and shopped and cooked and cleaned and sat through mindless movies and read the same stories over and over again, who entertained a million friends and made sure that teenagers had a safe place to hang, a mother who has survived teaching three kids to drive and waiting for their SAT scores to arrive, a mother who loves and supports her children unconditionally- doesn’t go out of business overnight.

I know it’s only late August, but Thanksgiving isn’t really that far off.

Many novelists, myself included, troll the news for ideas and inspiration, but there are some stories that should be off limits, no matter how captivating and intriguing.

For me, it’s the Diane Schuler story. When the story first broke that this devoted, hard working mother of two had somehow entered the windy Taconic Parkway in the wrong direction, and that eight people died instantly as a result, including four young children, there were no words. None. Like everyone else, all I could do was stare at the haunting images of those beautiful babies and pray for their souls, pray for their families, pray for the Bastardis and the Longos, the victims in the other car, and pray for everyone who had to clean up the carnage.

For days I tried to imagine how the Schuler and Hance families were enduring- what possible comfort family and friends could offer, how they were even managing to eat, sleep, function, care about living. I tried to imagine Jackie and Warren Hance, the parents who lost all three of their stunning daughters in a fraction of a second, walking into their girls’ rooms and seeing the litany of still possessions, the stuffed animals, the clothes, the music, the photos- and not begging God to take them as well. I thought about Diane’s husband, Danny, who lost his wife and best friend, his daughter, Erin, but was spared his five-year old son, Bryan, who continues to heal in the hospital. At least Danny had a living legacy in which to hold on, I thought.

Then word came that the tragedy was still unfolding. Diane Schuler was discovered to be drunk and stoned- well beyond the legal limits- when she crashed her brother’s minivan. It explained everything and it explained nothing.

What now should her family and the world make of Diane Schuler? What were the thoughts of all those people who had attested to her being a responsible, caring mother, aunt, co-worker? The people who said goodbye to her at the campgrounds and saw nothing amiss, including the woman who was swore that “she was as sober as a judge.” The friends and neighbors who never so much as saw her with a drink in her hand?

The demolished, half- drunk bottle of Absolut found in the wreckage tells another story- the truth. And you can be assured that more of that will be spilled onto the front pages over the weeks and months to come, all while the victimized families try to regroup.

I will continue to pray for them, and I will add another prayer. I hope that Jodi Piccoult, the best-selling Queen of Tragedy, and others who toil in this field, don’t go down this road with the Schuler and Hance families. I hope that they don’t find inspiration and ideas from the underlying causes- the hidden addictions, possible money and marriage woes and whatever else is revealed. All I know is that there is some material, as rich as it would be to mine, that should not be cannibalized for the sake of hitting the best-seller list.

Going forward, these families will suffer enough without having to watch the books and surely the movies, force them to relive the day their hearts were forever broken.

To these writers I say, long may your fingers fly across the keyboard, and long may you share your insights and stories, but please, don’t even think of giving this tragedy your revisionist’s touch. If not for the sake of the victims and their families, then for the sake of little Bryan Schuler. Who among us doesn’t hope that he will somehow carry on; that he will have the love and support he needs to enjoy  life; that he will discover the decency and goodness of the human spirit?  He does not need to ever learn which child actor was cast to play him in the film.