I, Sarah, stood in the deepest shadow I could find near the emergency exit, my back pressed against the cool cinderblock wall. My heart wasn’t just breaking; it felt as though it were being slowly ground into dust by the relentless, upbeat thumping of a Taylor Swift song. Watching my seven-year-old daughter, Lily, standing amidst the sea of taffeta and tuxedos was the single hardest thing I had endured since the day the casualty notification officers knocked on my front door.