It wasn’t hearing the sound of her fiancé’s voice as he tried to tell me what he couldn’t say. It wasn’t the detective telling me what I already felt. It wasn’t hearing her dad’s sobbing over the phone or watching her brother’s shaking hands as he packed a bag for her house. It wasn’t quietly collapsing on the floor in front of the toilet at the Neptune society. It wasn’t her 2 year old running to the front door to welcome mommy. It wasn’t speaking at her ‘event’ or driving her ashes home in the trunk of my car. It wasn’t getting the call that her killer was caught or my husband yelling at me he was done because I had lashed out. It wasn’t the awkward drunk hug from a man telling me good would come from it while another man, another killer’s dad, watched in turmoil. It was opening the envelope from the life insurance company containing my daughter’s life insurance check. In hindsight, that is when I gave in.