Something inside me broke.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to pull her away from that coffin by her perfectly styled hair and hold her face close enough to that photograph of my daughter to make her understand what she was looking at, who she was looking at, what had been done to the person in that box. I wanted Ethan to feel, just once, even a fraction of what my daughter had felt on the nights she locked herself in the bathroom and called me from the floor with her voice barely above a whisper, telling me not to worry, telling me she was fine, telling me things would get better soon.
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