Things were finally looking up for Susan, at least in her professional life. Four years earlier, she left her job in a prominent architectural firm to go solo. Her old job paid pretty well, but she’d never make much more. To increase her “earning potential,” as her accountant would say, she’d have to take a risk. Opening her own architectural firm was that risk. At first, the 43-year-old single mom was totally overwhelmed. Starting a new business took a lot of time and energy, and she didn’t have much of either left at the end of the day for her 13-year-old son Griffin. Since her husband’s death seven years ago, she has had to raise Griffin by herself.

Griffin groused about her being gone so much. “I know, honey,” she’d sigh. “But you’ve got to believe me—I’m doing this for the both of us. Once I get established, I’m gonna have more time—and money.”

The truth of the matter, however, was that she still wasn’t making major cash. She grossed about $50,000 a year. And just six months earlier she had to reorganize her fledgling business. In the process, she dropped her health coverage to save money. No doubt, it had been a rough ride on the solo circuit. Her accountant at least made sure she put away money for her retirement and Griffin’s college fund, as well as paying into Social Security. But in the past month things seemed to be turning around. She snared a couple of decent clients including an elementary school district that was flush with construction bond money.

	Susan hydroplaned into the median at 60 miles an hour.

Driving home from a meeting with a client one wet night, Susan found herself in an unusually chipper mood. She hit scan on her radio and Eddie Rabbit’s “I Love a Rainy Night” came on. The tune was a guilty pleasure for Susan. Her sophisticated architect friends would tease her if they knew she liked something so corny. She hummed along at first, almost embarrassed for herself. But as the song reached the chorus, she couldn’t hold back anymore and she sung out, “Well, I love a rainy night.” The next thing she new, she couldn’t control the car. It sailed—hydroplaned—into the median at 60 miles an hour. The image of her late husband flashed into her mind. Was she going to join him on the other side? Then she thought of Griffin. She couldn’t leave him. By the time the paramedics arrived, she was unconscious.