The roads are slick with snow and ice.
The sky is grey and foreboding.
Holed up here in my office, thinking of Karly Sheehan.
Today is her birthday.
Or the day that marks what is her 15th birthday, although Karly died at age 3.
Tortured, the jury declared, by a monster so much bigger than her that it’s inconceivable the wrongs he inflicted upon Karly.
I hear from people almost weekly, people around the world who have read or are reading Karly’s story. They always tell me that meeting Karly that way – through a story that chronicles her life and her death – makes them weep. They tell me stories of the abuses they, too, suffered, and how thankful they are to have survived child abuse.