"He is gone."
My sister's text startles me, and I sit up in bed. At first, I am confused and think she means her son is at school so that we can talk. I call her, and I know she is not okay from her voice. I realize she meant her son is missing.
My chest tightens, and my mind races. Fear often invokes a similar feeling; everything is magnified and moves in slow motion. I feel my helplessness, my lack of control, and I swallow the thick lump in my throat before my voice cracks. This is not a moment to break. This is a moment to care for my sister. I tell her to breathe, and I tell myself to breathe. She needs to go and look for him. Because I am a five-hour flight and another country away, I make phone calls while she searches. Read more of this post
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