Unwelcome Anniversaries Part 1

You weren't supposed to be there.

I remember they called us out of school. The teachers whispered in hushed tones all around us. My husband is in the tower. My daughter is on the plane. The tears flushed their faces, and I didn't understand. at the tender age of eight, grown-up problems seemed out of my league.

When I walked home (counting my steps in my head) the sirens echoed off the towers looming overhead.

The apartment door slammed shut. White noise filled my ears. The answering machine blinked a red six. I clicked play, propping my elbows on the table, waiting.

The first five messages were you, calmly telling me that the police had it all under control, that you would be home soon. With each passing message, you became desperate. I could hear it in your shaking voice.

The sixth message played. You sounded frantic on the other end as you repeated my name seven times.