For seven years, I lived with silence — no answers, no clues, just the ache of not knowing what had happened to my daughter. Then, in a crowded coffee shop far from home, I saw a bracelet that stopped me cold.
I was 45 when Christmas stopped being something I looked forward to celebrating. It turned into a season I had to survive.
I used to love everything about it.
For instance, the way snow softened the world, the smell of cinnamon from the stovetop, and how my daughter, Hannah, used to belt out Christmas songs off-key just to make me laugh.
I am 52 now.
Hannah disappeared seven years ago, when she was 19. One evening, she said she was heading out to meet a friend, but she never came back.
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