I thought the flea market would distract me from the pain of missing my daughter. Instead, I found her bracelet, the one she was wearing the day she disappeared. The next morning, my yard was full of police officers… and the truth I’d buried along with the pain began to resurface.
Sunday was my favorite day.
Before my daughter, Nana, disappeared, Sundays smelled of cinnamon and fabric softener. She always blasted music, sang into spatulas, and made pancakes in a chaotic way that left traces of syrup on the kitchen counters.
Before my daughter disappeared…
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