What I didn’t know—what I could not have imagined, not even after thirty-six years of being the family’s easiest target—was what they would do to my daughter.
My daughter Lily was eight years old that summer.
She had my dark hair, my wide gray eyes, and a softness in her that made people think she was fragile until they actually met her. She was quiet with strangers, funny when she felt safe, and the kind of child who apologized to furniture after bumping into it. She collected sea glass, loved lemon sorbet, and had spent the weeks before the wedding asking me whether she really had to go.
“Can’t I just stay with Aunt Mara?” she had asked from the kitchen counter while I signed one of the final vendor approvals.
“Aunt Mara is in Denver,” I reminded her.
