That first morning, February 24, I had just woken up when I realised my heart was beating as fast as if I’d been exercising. For two minutes, I lay there listening: the roar of missiles outside, the thumping of my pulse in my ears, honking cars and alarms in the street.
I refused to admit that the worst I could imagine was happening. In the foggy morning twilight, I rose and tried to collect myself. Then I gathered my daughter’s things into a backpack.
She was crying as I rushed to put her most prized belongings into its small pouches. Little boxes of confetti, plastic food for the toy cat, tiny handmade notepads, Lego figurines, a few favourite stones. I was crying too. Now, I still feel as I did on the first day.
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