I can’t remember what I was doing on the day of the 2013 Boston Marathon. It was a Monday, so I probably hung out with my kids and worked a few hours from home. All I remember is getting a text from my husband, saying, “did you hear someone bombed the Boston Marathon?”
Tears immediately caught in my throat. I didn’t respond to the text, but frantically checked Facebook for any signs that my coach and his brother-in-law — also a runner in our group — were OK.
On Coach Brad’s page I found a post from his nephew saying that he had talked to Tio Brad on the phone and both he and Tio Phil were fine. I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath while scouring Brad’s page.
Then I started crying — first with relief that the people I cared about were uninjured, and then with grief. A terrorist had targeted runners. I was a runner, so I felt like I had also been targeted, though I was 3,000 miles away from the race and not a marathoner...