I was 45 when Christmas stopped being something I looked forward to celebrating. It turned into a season I had to survive. I used to love everything about it.
For instance, the way snow softened the world, the smell of cinnamon from the stovetop, and how my daughter, Hannah, used to belt out Christmas songs off-key just to make me laugh.
I am 52 now.
Hannah disappeared seven years ago, when she was 19. One evening, she said she was heading out to meet a friend, but she never came back. She left no note and never called.
The police never found a body, leaving me with more questions than answers.
My daughter just disappeared without a trace.
For months, I didn’t sleep more than two hours at a time.
I also kept her room exactly the way it was, hoping that maybe she’d walk back in and complain that I had moved something. Her favorite hoodie still hung on the chair. Her perfume — that lemony scent — lingered in the closet long after it should have faded.
