A stepmom reassures her stepdaughter that it's okay to want things to be the way they were when her parents were together.
“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.