It was a sunny Tuesday morning in September 2001 when Sarah’s father left their suburban home. Just like every morning, he kissed her on the forehead, smiled at her mother, and left for his office in the World Trade Center. Sarah was just a little girl, watching him go, blissfully unaware of what the day would bring.
Later that morning, as she settled into her classroom, Sarah sensed something unusual in the air. Teachers whispered anxiously, and students were quickly ushered into the hallway. Then she saw it: everyone was gathered in front of a television screen, eyes wide and faces pale, as images of flames, smoke, and chaos filled the screen. Her mother called the school soon after, her voice trembling, and asked for Sarah to come home immediately.
That was the last day Sarah saw her father.
Now, more than two decades later, Sarah stands in front of the kitchen counter in her own home, the same age as her father when he died. She’s built a life, carved out a career, and tried her best to move forward. Yet, there’s always a shadow following her—a lingering question that she cannot let go. “Why did my father have to die?” She asks herself this almost daily, even after years of trying to make sense of it all. She understands the facts: it was a terrorist attack, an act of incomprehensible violence that cost thousands of lives. But it doesn’t answer her most personal question.
Sarah watches the news now with a keen eye. She’s followed the trials and the plea deals with the alleged masterminds of the attack—the men held at Guantanamo Bay, who after years of court battles might avoid the death penalty in exchange for life sentences. She’s heard the arguments from both sides, the criticism and support, the calls for retribution, and the desire for closure.
She wonders if seeing these men sentenced might help ease the pain or if it would feel hollow. “Will justice give me peace?” she sometimes whispers when she’s alone. She can’t help but feel that whatever happens to those responsible, the man she loved and lost—the father who was her world—would still be gone. The answers, if they ever come, will likely never satisfy her deepest need: to understand why it had to be him.
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms.
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