The day Laura got married shimmered with gold — twinkling Christmas lights, laughter drifting through the backyard, and her barefoot joy spinning amid dust and spilled punch. At the lemonade table, our fingers sticky with sugar, I teased her, “You’re really a married woman now.” She smiled — radiant, but only for a heartbeat. I didn’t notice the shadow in her eyes, the tiny tremor before her happiness slipped away.
By dawn, she was gone. The motel room where she spent her wedding night stood quiet — her dress carefully folded, her phone untouched, no note in sight. The police combed the fields, dragged the pond, questioned Luke, but Laura had vanished like wind through dry stalks of corn. With her disappearance, Mama’s voice lost its light, Daddy’s shoulders their strength, and the pulse of our family quietly broke.