For two decades, my life was a fractured existence, defined entirely by the moment my seven-year-old son, Daniel, vanished from a Route 9 rest stop

kitchen, mourning the birthdays and graduations we could never reclaim. Yet, as my grandson pressed a small dinosaur sticker into my hand, I realized that while the road had taken everything from me, it had finally, miraculously, returned the only thing that ever truly mattered.