On that fateful day, I took the first bus to Chicago. During the three-hour ride, I didn’t say a single word. My eyes were glued to the window, and my heart was tied in a knot. I told myself to calm down, but my hands trembled as I held the ticket. When I got off at the main terminal, it was already getting dark.

I walked quickly toward the gated community where my son, Daniel, lived. It was the same path I had walked dozens of times to visit him and Matthew, my grandson