It has now been 72 days since Jack and Lilly Sullivan vanished without a trace. In that time, their names have been spoken in homes, classrooms, and newsrooms, carried in quiet prayers and loud cries for help. And yet, despite the community’s growing concern and a family’s unrelenting grief, there remain no answers—only questions echoing through the spaces they once filled.

The disappearance of children—any child—is a wound that cuts through families, communities, and even strangers who may never know them personally. But Jack and Lilly are not just a headline. They are real children. A brother and sister. Two young souls with favorite colors, bedtime routines, and little quirks only their loved ones could describe. For those who knew them, each passing day without them feels like a weight, heavier than the last. It is not just time lost—it is moments, milestones, memories that were supposed to happen but never did.

In the digital age, where everyone has a voice, not all of them are kind. Social media has brought awareness to missing persons cases, helping spread information quickly, but it has also allowed cruelty and misinformation to flourish. Some people speak harshly from behind screens, not realizing that their words may reach grieving mothers, desperate fathers, confused classmates, and broken-hearted grandparents. These aren’t just news consumers—they are human beings pleading for help, trying to understand how two children could vanish without a trace.

It is impossible for outsiders to truly grasp the quiet devastation that lingers in the wake of a disappearance. A bedroom that remains untouched becomes a sacred space—a shrine to hope, pain, and memory. Toys sit still. Clothes hang neatly. Little shoes are lined up near the door, waiting for feet that haven’t come home. The sound of laughter is gone, replaced by a silence so loud it screams. These are the things that rarely make the news, yet they are the heart of the story. They are the truth of what’s left behind.

At school, their absence is more than just empty chairs. Their classmates notice the difference. Teachers try to maintain routine, but there’s no normal when children vanish. Friends ask questions that have no answers. Little minds try to process big emotions—fear, confusion, sadness—and sometimes guilt, wondering if they missed something, wondering if they could have done something. The ripple effect of loss stretches wider than we imagine.

Their grandmother sits every day with the unimaginable sorrow that her beloved grandchildren are missing. Her tears are not silent. They fall with the weight of every birthday she fears they may never celebrate, every future moment she may never share. A grandmother’s love is deep and enduring, and her heartbreak is its own form of endless waiting. Her hope flickers and flares, fueled by memory and love, yet it is battered by the absence that never relents.

Families of missing children live in two worlds: one of before and one of after. Before the disappearance, there were ordinary days filled with rushed mornings, packed lunches, goodnight kisses, and plans for the weekend. After, there is only the constant ache of wondering where they are, what happened, and whether they are safe. There is no closure, no beginning or end—only an endless in-between.

So to those who sit in comfort, surrounded by their loved ones, we ask only this: think of Jack and Lilly. Think of their family’s torment and the depth of their unanswered questions. Think of the classrooms where their seats remain unfilled, and of the friends who miss their laughter. Think of the people who haven’t given up hope—who still post flyers, who still organize search parties, who still light candles every night in prayer and protest.

Sharing a photo. Saying their names. Spreading their story. These acts, however small, matter. They remind the world that Jack and Lilly are not forgotten, and that their story is far from over. Awareness is the bridge between silence and discovery. It is how someone, somewhere, might remember something important. It is how the right piece of information might finally reach the people who can act on it.

It’s easy to scroll past a post or dismiss it as “just another missing case.” But to their family, it’s not just another anything. It is everything. It is their reality, every hour of every day. They are not asking for sympathy—they are begging for truth. They are not asking for perfection—they are pleading for answers. And above all, they are hoping for a miracle.

In 72 days, a lot can happen. But for Jack and Lilly, it has been 72 days lost. 72 days stolen from their childhood. 72 mornings without giggles. 72 bedtimes without goodnight hugs. And for their family, it has been 72 days of heartbreak, sleepless nights, and relentless searching.

Time passes, but it should never dull urgency. Missing doesn’t mean forgotten. And silence should not mean acceptance. If anything, the passage of time should make us louder in our calls for action, more insistent in our demands for justice, and more united in our desire to bring them home.

Jack and Lilly deserve more than headlines. They deserve homecomings. They deserve to grow up. Their story isn’t finished—not yet. As long as people continue to care, continue to share, and continue to search, there is still hope. And hope, even in its quietest form, is powerful.

We may not know where they are, but we know this: Jack and Lilly are loved. Deeply, endlessly, fiercely. They are missed beyond measure. And they are still out there, somewhere. That truth must move us—into action, into compassion, into refusing to let them fade into statistics.

Speak their names. Share their faces. Hold space for their story. Because one day, we want to be able to say not just they were missing—but they were found.