Temperatures in the wee hours of that January night were frigid. I couldn’t keep warm even with the heater at full blast in my car. My 17-year-old daughter, Skyler, was out there somewhere in the elements. I drove by the piles of snow along the roads of our rural neighborhood. Did she take a heavy coat? Is she curled up somewhere freezing? My fear was blinding.
Over and over, I replayed the events of that evening, when the scent of marijuana led me to Skyler’s room. “Get out!” she’d shouted when I opened the door to confront her.
“When your dad gets home, we’re going to have a serious talk,” I promised her. I knew we had to handle this together. “Please, dear
