Saturday, April 7, 2012 The morning before Easter I stood in front of the kitchen window in my pajamas with a cup of hot coffee in my hand, gazing at the cloudless sky and watching the pesky squirrels in the backyard eat all of the birdseed out of the birdfeeder. No matter how many times I chased them off, they came back. I loved watching the birds so I put up with the thieves. Such a perfect day—except for one thing: my daughter Elizabeth still wasn’t home. She had spent the night at a friend’s house, and I had expected her to return before now. She knew the rules—she had to check in with us in person the next morning after staying the night away from home—but she hated to follow them. A typical teenager, rebellious and stubborn, she thought her parents didn’t understand her, that we had no idea what it was like to be a teenager. Lord knows, I was well aware of the trouble a teenager could get into by spending the night away from home, not only from her older half-brother