We are enjoying ourselves, my young daughter and me, soaking in the sunshine, breathing in the fresh air, and savoring this rare opportunity for just the two of us to be together. I turn my back for just a second to grab something just out of reach, and when I turn around again, she is not there. I turn every way, thinking surely she is just a few steps away, but I do not see her anywhere. I start calling her name, not caring if other people are staring, and try not to panic.
After a few unsuccessful moments of being unable to find her, I locate a security guard to help me. I describe her as best as I can: 4-years old, long dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, pink sparkly dress (did it have a unicorn or a rainbow on it? I suddenly can’t remember!), flip-flops on her little feet. He goes one way, speaking into his walkie-talkie with his colleagues, and I go the other way, calling her name, more loudly now, looking frantically in every space, around every corner, under every surface.
Ten fear-filled minutes later, I finally spot her, huddled into a heap, sobbing into her arms, crying Mommy! I want my Mommy! over and over again. This young child has just endured, for ten fear-filled minutes, her worst nightmare: losing her mother. I run to her and scoop her into my arms, where she continues weeping into my shoulder, her tears staining my shirt. It takes a long time to console her, to assure her, Mommy’s here now. I love you so much! You are safe!
