The freezing of time is a peculiar byproduct of grief. For twenty-one years, I kept my daughter’s room exactly as it was the morning she vanished. The lavender walls, the glow-in-the-dark stars, and the scent of strawberry shampoo in the closet were all that remained of four-year-old Catherine. She had disappeared from her kindergarten playground in the span of ten minutes, leaving behind only a tipped-over pink backpack and a single red mitten in the wood chips. My husband, Frank, collapsed from the stress three months later, purportedly dying of a broken heart. I buried him, believing I was the…
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