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If you had seen me on that day you would have said I was a hyper child, not the mother of a teenager. I couldn’t sit still, much less find a comfortable position in an unforgiving church pew. I was nervous about meeting the President of the United States, and the harder I tried to focus on the questions I wanted to ask, the more fidgety I became. I don’t recall how many times I checked myself in the mirror and redid the hair pins on my French twist. I do remember thinking about how my life had changed since Martha--the cemetery psychic--gave me the crystal necklace. ... ~ * ~ I thought of the diary I’d found. It pointed to the guilty party, but like a complex news story with no lead sentence, left more questions than answers.