Kayla’s scream ripped me out of sleep at 6:13 a.m., before the sun had fully lifted over the roofs across our suburban street.
The house smelled like cold coffee from the kitchen and lavender shampoo from the hallway bathroom. Outside, a neighbor’s SUV door slammed with that ordinary Saturday-morning sound, careless and normal, while my oldest daughter made a noise no mother ever forgets.
I ran so fast my shoulder hit the doorframe.
Kayla was sitting straight up in bed, both hands clamped to her head, her prom dress still hanging from the closet door in its plastic cover. The little silver shoes were lined up underneath it like the night was still waiting for her.
Only there was no hair under her hands.
Her blonde hair was everywhere. Across the pillowcase. Tangled in the sheets. Scattered in soft ruined clumps on the carpet, like someone had tried to erase her while she slept.
Prom was that night.