I had not driven on Route 9 in two decades, not since my seven-year-old son disappeared from a rest stop while I was inside buying him a Sprite. Last week, a blown tire forced me back onto that road, and a stranger made sure I did not leave with the same unanswered questions I had carried for years.
I am fifty years old, and my life has been divided into two halves since 2006.
Before Daniel.
After Daniel.
Before, I was just a mother driving along Route 9 with my seven-year-old boy beside me, listening to him plead for a Sprite as if it were the only thing that could save him. Momand baby
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