time.
Something inside me tightened.
But that happened on Monday.
To understand why it mattered, I have to go back one year.
My fourteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia, had gone on a Disney vacation with my husband, Gary. I couldn’t join them because of work, and Cynthia hadn’t seemed disappointed. She had always been close to her father.
For the first three days, my phone filled with pictures.
Cynthia wearing mouse ears.
Gary holding an absurdly large sundae.
Both of them laughing on rides.
Then, at 2:13 a.m. on the
