Several years ago, I met Mrs. Judy in a local cemetery to refinish the bronze marker she shared with her husband.

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He had proudly served our country in Vietnam before losing his battle with brain cancer in 1991. As she talked about him, she pointed out the veteran’s plaque she had ordered years before. Even after all that time, you could still hear the admiration in her voice.

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Then she quietly pointed to another headstone.

“Would you mind doing that one too?”

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It sat just to the west of theirs.

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The inscription read:

Stacie Pannell
1985

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Before I thought, I spoke.

“Oh, Mrs. Judy… your daughter. She was murdered.”

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She nodded.

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No anger.

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No bitterness.

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Just the quiet ache of a mother who had carried the unimaginable for decades.

“Yes,” she said softly. “Stacie was beautiful. She had just started her freshman year at Northeast. She loved the Tiger Band. She was so smart… and she was happy.”

Then she stopped.

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She never mentioned the woman who murdered her daughter.

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Not once.

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She simply turned and slowly walked back toward her car.

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After Mrs. Judy drove away, I stood beside Stacie’s weathered marker and did what most of us do these days.

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I pulled out my phone.

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Like so many who attended Northeast, I knew the story. It had become part of the college’s history. I searched for it again, expecting to find information about the case.

Instead, I found page after page about the murderer.

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Appeals.

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Interviews.

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Television specials.

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Articles.

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The woman who stole Stacie’s life had somehow continued to receive the larger platform.

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Standing there that afternoon, I realized something that has stayed with me ever since.

For all the attention given to the crime, there seemed to be so little devoted to the young woman whose life had been taken.

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Before I left that day, I stopped Mrs. Judy and asked, “Would you mind if I wrote about Stacie?”

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She looked at me with tears in her eyes and quietly said,

“Please do. I don’t want anybody to forget my Stacie.”

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I’ve never forgotten those words.

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Murder stole Stacie’s future. Time should never steal her memory.

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I’ve restored enough headstones to learn one thing.

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Granite can weather.

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Bronze can tarnish.
 

Even names can fade.

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But only if we let them.

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I’ve spent all the words I’m willing to spend on the person who stole Stacie’s future.

From this day forward…

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...I’d rather spend them remembering the young woman who should’ve been allowed to live it.