My daughter, Nora, vanished from a crowded beach when she was 16. She told me she was walking to the ice cream stand at the far end, and I watched her go. Twenty minutes later, her towel was still beside mine. Her sandals were sitting on top of it, and her phone was face-down in her bag. First I was annoyed. Then worried. Then terrified.
Police and lifeguards searched everywhere, but Nora had seemingly disappeared. The last thing she wore was a turquoise cover-up my mother had sewn for her, with Nora’s initials inside the hem and a crooked yellow sun patched over a tear. Eight years passed without answers. Then, during a reluctant weekend trip to a coastal town nearly 600 miles away, I saw a stranger wearing a faded turquoise cover-up. The wind lifted one corner—and there was my mother’s crooked yellow sun.
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