Seven Years After My Daughter’s Funeral, I Followed Her Husband to a Rehabilitation Center—And Saw a Woman I Thought Was Dead

Sometimes she left messages.

Once, I found a piece of paper marked with the name of a rehabilitation facility.

St. Anne.

I didn’t ask why.

I should have.

Dorothy died before the truth came out.

I had no way to tell her she was right to keep asking.

No way to apologize for dismissing the questions that mattered most.