Wiping off tears, she looked at her daughter rearranging the dolls in bed. She whispered that playing with those dolls was the only control she had in life. “Putting them in the order gives her a sense of balance lost in our life. Everything is out of her hands, except those dolls. The human chain in her life is broken, so she has created one made of dolls.” For a couple of minutes, we looked at each other in a daze like lost frightened animals. In a spontaneous gesture, she threw her arms around me, held me tightly and wept. Emotionally drained and shocked after all that transpired, I whispered in her ear that the sun will rise in the morning, even at the roadside. Beneath layers of guilt that two people we knew were murdered on Black Monday, there were all the other unresolved problems t
