Comforted by the Words of a Departed Daughter

A mother who lost her child in the Virginia Tech shootings finds healing in her expression of faith.

By Marian Hammaren, Westtown, New York

As appeared in

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I received the last text message from my daughter, Caitlin, on April 15, 2007. Caitlin was a sophomore in college and we always stayed in touch.

I remember being both thrilled and a little heartsick that August day two and a half years before, when my husband, Chris, and I drove her down from upstate New York for freshman orientation at Virginia Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia. I’d never left my baby—my only child—behind before.

But Caitlin knew how to make me feel better. We weren’t 10 minutes north of Blacksburg on Highway 81 before I got a text message: “I LOVE my room, Mom. And I know I’m going to love it here. Don’t worry. XXC.”

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Caity and I had been texting ever since. Or at least whenever we could. Caity’s days were wall-to-wall—pre-law classes, church activities, her job as a Resident Advisor, her sorority. She didn’t always have time to check in.

“If you’re too busy to call,” I told her, “just text me an ‘OK.’ If you’re too busy for that, just type an ‘O.’”

That made her laugh.

On the night of April 15 I texted Caity at nine to tell her that the nor’easter that had been blowing all day in New York showed no signs of letting up. “The radio’s predicting floods,” I wrote. “Can you BELIEVE it?”

Our house was built on the side of a hill, in an area that was never supposed to flood. I was in bed reading when Chris stuck his head in.

“The whole driveway is underwater!” he said. I threw my jeans on and grabbed a flashlight.

Two hours later, with a trench dug and the waters flowing clear of the house, we slogged back in, dried off and I checked my cell phone. Caity had left a message for me. “Let me know how it turns out! XOC.”

“All’s well!” I typed back to her. “Dad has it under control.” I signed off the way I always did: “Love, hugs and kisses. Talk to you tomorrow.”

Chris and I were up at seven. Still raining. I checked my cell. Nothing from Caitlin. No big deal, though. I knew I’d hear from her before the morning was up. I’m glad she’s not worried about us.

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At eight I decided I might as well head in to work. I’m an occupational therapist and even with the bad weather I knew I’d have a few calls and e-mails to field.

I’d just walked into my office when Chris called from home. “Turn on your computer. There’s a problem at Virginia Tech.” My computer was still powering up when my cell went off again. Caitlin?

It was a classmate of hers. Had I heard from her?

“No,” I said. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” Caitlin’s friend said. “But it’s something really serious. Police are everywhere.”

My computer came on and I clicked to the news. Shock tingled through my body at the lead headline: “Two dead at Virginia Tech. Gunman still on loose.” Two people out of a campus of thousands. What are the odds that one of them is Caitlin?

But another part of me rejected that logic. Who would have ever dreamed that our home would flood? Yet it did. Odds don’t matter when something’s wrong. And deep inside I knew something was wrong. I knew it as surely as I knew that the inbox on my cell phone still read “empty.”

I reached to shut off my computer. The headline had changed. The number of dead had now climbed into the twenties. I shut the computer off and raced for my car, calling Chris again. “Get ready to leave,” I said. “We’re going down to Virginia.”

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“I’ve already packed the car,” Chris said.