They found her ball. That was the only clear fact I was ever given.
The search went on for days, weeks. Time blurred. Everyone whispered, but no one explained.
I remember Grandma crying at the sink, whispering, “I’m so sorry,” over and over.
I asked my mother once, “When is Ella coming home?”
She was drying dishes. Her hands stopped. “She’s not,” she said.
“Why?”
My father cut in. “Enough,” he snapped. “Dorothy, go to your room.”
Later, they sat me down in the living room. My father stared at the floor. My mother stared at her hands. “The police found Ella,” she said.
“Where?”
“In the forest,” she whispered. “She’s gone.”
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