One year ago, my fourteen-year-old daughter, Cynthia, traveled to Disney with my husband, Gary.
Only Gary returned home.
I couldn’t go because of work, but Cynthia was excited to spend time alone with her father. During the first few days, my phone was filled with pictures. They wore matching mouse ears, tried enormous desserts, and posed in front of different rides.
Then, in the middle of their fourth night, my phone rang.
It was Gary.
Cynthia had disappeared.
He told me he had left their hotel room briefly to collect food. When he came back, she was gone.
Police searched everywhere.
Days became weeks.
Weeks became months.
Eventually, investigators began to believe someone had taken my daughter.
Gary appeared devastated. He blamed himself constantly and refused to travel again. The suitcase he had carried on that trip was shoved into the back of our closet, where it stayed untouched.
Once, I suggested throwing it away.
His reaction was immediate and furious.
I convinced myself it was simply grief.
