All I wanted was to confirm a suspicion I couldn’t shake. But what I uncovered that December morning unraveled everything I thought I knew about my family.
I’m a 32-year-old mom. And until two weeks ago, I thought the worst thing that could happen in December was running out of time to buy gifts or my daughter catching the flu right before her holiday play.
It started on a gray Tuesday morning. I was already drowning in deadlines when my cellphone buzzed. It was Ruby’s preschool teacher. Ms. Allen. Her voice was soft and cautious, as if she were trying not to spook a wild animal.
“Hi, Erica,” she began. “I was wondering if you had a few minutes today. It’s nothing urgent, but I think a quick chat would be helpful.”