I was having dinner at an upscale restaurant with my daughter and her husband. After they left, the waiter leaned down and whispered something that made me freeze in my seat. Moments later, flashing lights filled the windows outside…

I nodded, picking up my glass of cranberry juice. I was about to take a sip when I noticed it: a slight, cloudy residue at the bottom of the glass, as if something had been hastily dissolved in the dark red liquid. A cold knot of unease tightened in my stomach. I put the glass back on the table without drinking.

“Who wants dessert?” I asked casually, my mind racing as I changed the subject.

The dinner continued for another half hour. I ordered a new juice, claiming the previous one was too sweet, and I watched them. I watched their reactions with a new, terrifying clarity. There was a palpable tension in their smiles, a poorly disguised anxiety in their gestures.

When we finally said goodbye on the sidewalk, Rachel hugged me with an uncharacteristic intensity. “I love you, Mom,” she said, her voice a little too loud, a little too bright. For a fleeting, painful moment, I almost believed it was true.