For 21 years, I kept my daughter’s room the same. Lavender walls, glow-in-the-dark stars, tiny sneakers by the door. If I opened the closet, I could still catch strawberry shampoo.
Catherine disappeared from her kindergarten playground at four.
My sister called it unhealthy.
“Laura, you can’t freeze time,” she said, standing in the doorway like she was afraid to step inside.
I told her, “You don’t get to redecorate my grief,” and she left with wet eyes.
Catherine disappeared from her kindergarten playground at four. She wore a yellow daisy dress and two mismatched barrettes because “princesses mix colors.”
That morning, she asked, “Curly noodles tonight, Mommy?”
Frank lifted her backpack and grinned. “Spaghetti with curlies. Deal.”
The playground looked normal.
I shouted after them, “Your red mitten!” and Catherine waved it out the window. “I got it!”
It was 10 minutes. One minute, she was in line for juice boxes; the next, she was gone. When the school called, I was rinsing a mug, thinking about nothing important.
“Mrs. Holloway? We can’t find Catherine,” Ms. Dillon said, voice shaking.
“What do you mean you can’t find her?” I asked.
“I turned my back for a second,” she insisted, and I was already grabbing my keys.
The playground looked normal. Kids still screamed, the swing still squeaked, and the sun still shone like it had no shame. Frank stood near the slide, stiff, staring at the mulch.
A cop crouched beside the backpack.
I grabbed his arm. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he whispered, and his eyes went glassy.
