It told me what had been happening to the one at home all along.
And by the time I understood the difference, I could barely forgive myself.
That shoebox should have warned me.
I could barely forgive myself.
***
At 41, I had spent a year learning a brutal truth.
A missing child never really leaves your house.
She stays in the second toothbrush still standing in the bathroom cup. She lingers in the empty chair at breakfast, the one closest to the window.