It's that frantic hour. You've put in a full day at work, battled the crowds at the grocery store, picked up your three kids from daycare and just begun preparing the evening meal. The kids are being. . .well, typical kids. "Mom, Billy took my crayon," "did not," he replies. Above the clamor you hear a persistent ringing of the doorbell. Drying your hands you manage to make your way to the door while dodging kids, toys and coats on the floor.
You open the door. Your blood runs cold when you see the state trooper on the front step. Before he opens his mouth to speak, somehow you know. Panic, fear and grief. . .gut wrenching grief, as the adrenaline surges through your body.
"No, no, no" you sob as the officer begins his painful report. "I am so sorry Mrs. Jo
