That morning began like every other — soft sunlight through the kitchen window, the smell of toast, the hum of a normal life I thought would never change.
My six-year-old daughter, Emily, sat at the table with her sketchpad, humming as I packed her lunch. She slipped the pad into her backpack, kissed me goodbye, and climbed onto the yellow school bus. I waved as it drove away, never imagining that in just a few hours, my world would unravel.
By noon, my phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Unknown number. Then another. Then the school principal’s voice, tight and urgent. “Mrs. Lane, you need to come to the school right now.”
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