It lined up perfectly with her spring break. I couldn’t go. Neither could my husband. Work, for both of us. And I don’t fly.

I mean, I really don’t fly. Haven’t in over ten years. It’s not just a preference; it’s a full-on, crippling phobia. Sweaty hands, racing heart, the distinct, metallic taste of panic rising in my throat the second I’m near a boarding gate. Even the scent of jet fuel makes my throat feel like it’s closing. So, we drive. We take trains. We stay grounded. That’s how I stay functional.

The point is, I wasn’t bracing for trauma. I was expecting a selfie from a street market. I answered the call, a smile already on my face. The smile died instantly.

There was no noise. Just Sophie, my 15-year-old daughter, sitting rigid on the edge of a generic hotel bed.