At 6:30 one morning, I opened my sixteen-year-old daughter Lily’s bedroom door and found her bed empty. Her window was slightly open, and beneath it, the chrysanthemums her father had planted were crushed. Only twenty minutes earlier, a visit from her classmate’s mother had prompted me to rush upstairs. Now Lily was gone, and I was trying to understand what had happened.
Two years had passed since my husband, Daniel, passed away. I worked extra shifts at the dental office, hoping to give Lily some stability as we adjusted to life without him. Sewing remained one of her greatest interests. She dreamed of becoming a fashion designer and practiced on a secondhand machine Daniel had found at an estate sale. It was something she enjoyed that also kept her connected to him.
A few days before that unsettling morning, Lily had stayed up until almost one o’clock sewing a deep-green dress for Annie, a quiet classmate preparing for the school concert. Annie’s mother, Marissa, could not afford a dress for the occasion. Lily wanted to help, but I was surprised when she placed her blue cardigan beside the finished outfit and insisted Annie should have that, too.