A Child Who Carried My Past
The girl looked no older than eleven.
Her light brown hair was tangled at the ends, and a faint purple bruise marked her collarbone. She looked exhausted in the way only children who have seen too much can.
But her eyes were sharp. Careful. Guarded.
She took a small step back, gripping the sleeve of her oversized sweater.
“My mom told me never to take it off,” she said softly.
“She said it shows who I am.”
My knees nearly gave out.
Eleven years earlier, I had fastened that bracelet on my daughter Emily’s wrist myself.
It was the morning of her first birthday.
The bracelet had been custom-made, engraved on the inside with three tiny letters:
EMC.
Continue on the next page:
