Twenty-one years after my daughter disappeared from the nursery playground, I thought I had come to terms with it. Then, on what would have been her 25th birthday, a white envelope appeared. Inside was a photo and a letter that began: "Dear Mom."
For 21 years, I kept my daughter's room the same. Lavender walls, glow-in-the-dark stars, tiny slippers by the door. If I opened the closet, I could still find strawberry shampoo.
Catherine disappeared from her kindergarten playground at the age of four.
My sister said that wasn't healthy.
—Laura, you can't freeze time—she said, standing in the doorway as if she were afraid to go in.
I told her, "You have no right to redecorate my pain," and she left with tears in her eyes.
Catherine disappeared from her kindergarten playground at the age of four. She was wearing a yellow daisy dress and two mismatched hair clips because "princesses mix colors."
That morning, she asked, "Curly noodles tonight, Mommy?"
Frank picked up his backpack and smiled. "Spaghetti with curls. Deal."
The playground seemed normal.
I shouted, "Your red glove!" and Catherine waved it out the window. "I've got it!"
It was ten minutes. One minute I was standing in line to buy juice; the next, she was gone. When the school called, I was drinking a cup, not thinking about anything important.
"Mrs. Holloway? We can't find Catherine," Mrs. Dillon said, her voice trembling.
"How come you can't find it?" he asked.
"I turned around for a second," he insisted, and I was already grabbing my keys.
The playground seemed normal. The children were still shouting, the swing set was still creaking, and the sun was still shining brightly. Frank stood near the slide, stiff, staring at the mulch.
A police officer crouched down next to the backpack.
I grabbed his arm. "Where is he?"
