About a week or so ago, as my daughter Zoey and I were getting ready for the day, I flipped on the television. I had heard rumors of snow, and although I normally seek out the weather report on my phone, the remote was closer. The weatherman hadn’t appeared yet so I continued to pack Zoey’s lunch.

Normally, Zoey and I chat as we busy ourselves in the morning, talking about the day ahead. But as I asked her if she was looking forward to ballet class, I found I had to repeat myself, which is something I rarely have to do. I found her in the living room, staring at the screen, a look of concern clouding her normally happy, joyful face. I turned my own face toward the television, and I watched scene after scene of awful, terrible news: a shooting… a robbery… a police search for a missing child… a murder…

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