This is not a transcript. This is not a verdict. This is not proof. This is not an accusation. This is my perspective. This is what it felt like to be me. This is the story I have carried. And perhaps understanding myself begins by allowing my own experience to exist alongside everyone else’s. The night before the trip, I packed. I gathered clothes, snacks, bags, water bottles, and spare clothes—all those little things children always seem to need at the very last minute. I thought ahead. I prepared. I imagined a happy day. The next morning, while the children finished breakfast, I brought out the bags and made sure…