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The last thing my daughter said to me before she walked out the door was, ‘Mum, you worry too much.’ I’m writing this at 3:24 in the morning. That’s the time I’ve been waking up every night since the 13th of October. No cyclone. No earthquake. Nothing you’d expect to shake a family here in New Zealand. Something I never imagined would reach us did. Hannah, my sister, was killed together with her 5-year-old daughter, Mila, on a quiet rural highway outside Hamilton. They were on their way to visit us. 4:30 in the afternoon. A warm, sunny Sunday. A car shot through a red light at an intersection and slammed straight into Hannah. She didn’t even have time to brake. The impact was on an angle, not head-on. That’s what saved them from the initial hit. It’s also what killed them in the end. Because they survived the crash. They were conscious. And they were completely alone. The road was empty — just a stretch between small towns. No one driving past. An ambulance patrolling the area was dispatched. They arrived after 8 minutes. They found Hannah and little Mila inside the car. No signs of life. The lead paramedic wrote something in his report that I haven’t been able to stop reading: “Clear signs of attempted escape. Blood on the front window from trying to break it with the head. Injuries on the hands. The headrest was detached and lying on the floor. The child’s seatbelt was partially cut — likely the mother attempted to free her using the car keys.” According to the investigators’ forensic reconstruction: Hannah tried everything. They found evidence she tried to smash the window with her head, her hands, her feet. She ripped out the headrest and swung it at the glass. When that didn’t work, she tried to cut Mila’s seatbelt with the keys. The window didn’t break. It didn’t even crack. The electrical system had failed from the impact. The electric windows wouldn’t move. The doors auto-locked, as most modern cars do. The investigators said it all likely happened extremely fast — within about 90 seconds, the car began filling with smoke, and seconds later it was already catching fire. Hannah wrapped her arms around Mila’s head, trying to shield her from the smoke. It didn’t help. At the funeral, my mum completely broke. She screamed into the graves: “Why didn’t anyone teach us how to get out? Why did no one tell us this could happen?” And deep down, I knew she was right. A few months before the crash, I had gone to a safety talk at work. A guest speaker — a former firefighter — showed us a demo video. “Watch this,” he said. “This is what actually happens when you try to break a modern car window.” “The window you’re about to see is made from toughened safety glass — everyone thinks it’s safer… …but you won’t believe what you’re about to see. I’m about to break every myth you’ve ever heard.” In the video, a big strong guy tried to smash the car window with a headrest. Twenty hits. The window didn’t even flinch. “As you can see,” the firefighter said, “the headrest won’t save you. Now imagine trying this while panicking, with seconds to spare…” “Now watch this,” he said. He pressed a small black tool — a SafeBreak. One click. The window shattered instantly. “This tool,” he said, “sits on your keychain and can save your life.” I remember thinking: Oh come on, that’s a bit dramatic. I didn’t buy one. I didn’t tell my sister. I didn’t tell anyone. I thought, like everyone else: What are the chances this will ever happen to us? And now Hannah and Mila are gone. The week after the funeral — I drove out to the crash site. I stood there and tried to understand. Eight minutes. Hannah and Mila were alone for eight whole minutes. I imagined Hannah pounding on the window, realising no one was coming. Realising no car was passing. Looking at little Mila and knowing she had no way to save her. I imagined Mila crying, “Mum, why aren’t we getting out? Mum, there’s fire! Mum, it’s hot!” I imagined Hannah trying to hide her panic, telling her it would be okay, knowing that wasn’t true. When I got home, I ordered six SafeBreak units — one for every car in the family. They arrived with a small piece of toughened glass for testing. I took one to Mum’s house. I needed to see with my own eyes if this thing actually worked. I pressed it against the glass. It shattered instantly. One click. Then I tried the seatbelt cutter — it sliced through a heavy bag strap like paper. Mum held the tool in her hand… and cried. “If she had this,” she whispered, “Hannah and Mila would still be here.” I almost burst into tears too. But I held it in. Because I knew Hannah would want us to get up, to keep going, and to make sure no other mum ever ends up in her situation. Since that day, I’ve shared their story with everyone I know. I posted on Facebook. I spoke at schools and community groups. I tried reaching anyone who would listen — because no Kiwi mum should ever go through what Hannah went through. I’ve bought more SafeBreak units for people who can’t afford them. I told myself: Every family deserves something that could save their lives — no matter how much money they have. And every time I give one away, I tell them about Hannah and Mila. About the eight minutes. About the fight they didn’t stand a chance of winning. I’m not going to tell you that you must buy one. I’m not going to tell you it will definitely save your life. I’ll just tell you this: Hannah was 34. A maths teacher. The most organised, careful, loving person you could ever meet. She planned everything down to the smallest detail. Except the one thing that could have saved them. Because she simply didn’t know. None of us knew. And Mila? She was pure sunshine — the kind of child who helped everyone, always curious, always asking “Why?” She wasn’t meant to leave this world like this. So young. So innocent. For eight minutes, on a quiet NZ road, they were trapped. Awake. Fighting for their lives. And the window never broke. No matter how hard they tried. If you’re reading this and you’re a parent, and you think, “That won’t happen to me,” Hannah thought the same. If you think, “I’ll break the window with something,” Hannah tried that. With everything she had. If you think, “Someone will stop to help,” sometimes… no one is there. You have seconds before smoke fills the car and the heat becomes unbearable. Hannah and Mila didn’t know that. But now you do. What you choose to do with that knowledge — that’s up to you. But please… do something. Because I never want to see another parent go through this. I never want another mum to spend the rest of her life imagining those eight minutes and knowing she couldn’t help. Hannah and Mila never got their second chance. You still have yours.