Just Another Missing Person

by Gillian McAllister

There is nothing Julia does better than obsess in the middle of the night. And, in fact, in the middle of the day, too.

There are things you don’t just know because you’re police: you know them because you’re a woman.

There is something authentic, to Julia, about leafing through the pages in bed. Something tangible, as though any secrets hiding between each sheet will be released into the night air.

Just—you know . . .” I said, leaving the rest implied: be careful who you open our private lives up to.

They felt endless—not to mention annoying—until they faded away to nothing. And, in those days, I didn’t know how lucky I was. Parenting felt so much like drudgery. I’d race through the days like I was on a timer, waiting for that elusive free time.

we found, in that old-fashioned lift with its accordion doors, that we had that rarest of things: chemistry. I don’t mean flirtation—don’t panic—I just mean that spiced banter that propels a marriage forward, that makes you laugh in the middle of arguments, that makes you tolerate long hours and sleepless nights and snoring, and, too, the things you thought would never happen.

Parenthood is beautiful, but hard, too. It’s tough to exist in the world when there is someone going about their business who you would die for.