“That was at my third birthday party,” she tells me, pointing to the collage on the bathroom wall. We are at my future sister-in-law’s house and the frame is filled with pictures of a two-years-ago Chloe and her cousin.
Tonight, I have had my heart on Paris, on the Syrian refugees people want to keep out of our country, on the children that died as we bombed ISIS.
I know it's not anyone’s fault that she’s screaming, yet I look for someone to blame.
A stepmom reassures her stepdaughter that it's okay to want things to be the way they were when her parents were together.