When I came home from a work trip, I expected to find my husband asleep and my daughter tucked into bed. Instead, I found her sleeping on the kitchen floor, and before that night was over, I discovered someone had stolen 30 years from my family.
The last thing I expected to find after a week away was my 12-year-old daughter, Mia, asleep on the kitchen floor.
She lay curled beneath a thin blanket with a pillow tucked under her head. One of our dining chairs had been pushed beside her, and a glass of water sat within easy reach.
For one terrified second, I thought she was hurt.
I dropped my suitcase, rushed across the kitchen, and knelt beside her.
Her breathing was slow and steady.
I touched her forehead.
No fever.
No bruises.
