I open my laptop and click on the video I keep on my desktop. It’s an interview of David and me on the LA news station, pleading with the public for information. I don’t turn up the sound because I know my words by heart. My face is a little swollen from crying, but my makeup is good. I looked and sounded the best, of course. I loved being in front of the camera. All of my acting experience shone through.

David looked horrible, almost like he was guilty of something besides not being home the evening Mary disappeared, not answering his phone when we needed him. The day of the interview, he let me do the talking. I’m wearing sunglasses because that is acceptable in these situations, I read, even though the press conference is being held inside at the station. They told us the appeals are most compelling from the mom, the kidnappers want to see my pain. I could deliver those lines easily.

David looked straight into the camera like a novice. Everyone knows you look at the interviewer. Duh. He has circles under his eyes, his dress shirt is wrinkled, as if he slept in it and he probably had. Betsy stayed off camera, safe with the policewoman who was omnipresent at our home during the search.

When it was time for my monologue, I faced the camera, because that’s what you do. “Please. Please bring my daughter back. We’ll do anything you ask. Her father and I, and her entire family, stand at the ready. We love you, Mary. If you can hear me, reach out and we’ll come get you. We love our daughter. Please, bring her back home.” David and his parents wrapped me in a hug, the first time we’d touched in years. I guess they wanted to be sure to have their fifteen minutes of fame. They’re like that.

We didn’t know then that the ocean currents would bring her home to us the next morning.

Those three days, waiting to find her, well, there is no description for those days. Or for the weeks after, as the sympathy poured in, as the meals were dropped off without stop, as the cards and flowers and donations surged, as we had a small, private funeral to bury Mary. It’s all a blur now. It was a terrible trauma. I worried a little that I couldn’t handle everything that happened. But then I found Dr. Rosenthal.

“You’ve lost so much, Jane. You’re grieving. Your entire family is. I should see them all. Bring David and Betsy in with you. You all need to process what has happened,” Dr. Rosenthal had advised.