If the plane crashes, I will finally be free. The thought came to me often when I was a young teenager, as easily as breathing. My mother was away, and I imagined what life would be without her. The fantasy didn’t last — she always came home — and everything exploded. One night in 1969, I was in the car with my friends. I was running 30 minutes late. I’d tried to call my mom from a public phone booth, but the rotary dial was broken. My stomach tightened. I knew what awaited me. As the