A heavy, calloused hand rested firmly on my shoulder, halting my desperate stride toward the porch. It was a tactile barrier between me and the nightmare waiting beyond the threshold.
“Ma’am, you shouldn’t look.”
The officer’s voice was gravelly, laced with a pity that turned my stomach. I ignored him, my eyes locked on the front door of my sister’s house. It was standing wide open, a dark, gaping maw in the afternoon sun. From the depths of that shadow, a sound drifted out—a low, rhythmic keening that scraped against the walls of my heart.
Crying. My daughter’s crying.
“Why?” The word clawed its way out of my throat, sounding foreign, brittle. “What happened to my daughter?”
The officer didn’t answer verbally. He didn’t have to. The grim set of his jaw and the way he shifted his weight told me everything I needed to know, yet everything I refused to accept.
If this had been three weeks ago, none of this would have happened. The regret washed over me, a bitter, acidic tide. Three weeks ago, I was packing my bags, flushed with the excitement of a career-defining opportunity. Five years into my tenure as a music teacher—a job I had taken to escape the burnout of my previous life in social work—I had been selected for a prestigious exchange program in Boston. It was my chance to breathe, to create, to be more than just a single mother surviving the grind.
