It was a Sunday afternoon in April, the kind of quiet, peaceful Easter I had grown accustomed to since my retirement. The air in my small suburban house was filled with the warm, comforting scent of slow-roasted ham and the faint, sweet smell of the spring daffodils blooming outside my kitchen window. I was sitting at my small dining table, nursing a cup of black coffee, expecting a call from my daughter, Lily, later that afternoon to wish me a happy holiday.
