I thought the flea market would distract me from the ache of missing my daughter. Instead, I found her bracelet — the one she wore the day she vanished. By morning, my yard was crawling with cops… and the truth I’d buried with my grief started clawing its way out.
Sundays used to be my favorite.
Before my daughter, Nana, vanished — Sundays smelled like cinnamon and fabric softener. She’d always play her music too loud, sing into spatulas, and toss pancakes in that chaotic way that left syrup trails across the counters.
Before my daughter vanished…
It’s been ten years since the last Sunday we had together.
Ten years of setting a plate anyway… then scraping it clean untouched.
And ten years of everyone saying the same thing:
“You have to move on, Natalie.”
But I never did. And deep down, I never wanted to.
