That night, my neighbor leaned over the fence and said she had seen my daughter come home during school hours again, her voice casual, as if she were commenting on the weather.
I smiled politely and said she must be mistaken, because denial is easier to offer than panic, especially when panic threatens to tear apart everything you believe about your child.
Inside, my stomach dropped hard, because this wasn’t the first time she had mentioned it, and patterns are never accidents.
My daughter was thirteen, quiet, careful, the kind of child teachers described as responsible, the kind who followed rules even when no one was watching.
At least, that was the version of her I thought I knew, the version that made me sleep peacefully at night.
The next morning, I kissed her goodbye at the door like always, my lips brushing her hair, my heart beating a little too fast.
“Have a good day,” I said, forcing my voice into something that sounded normal, something that wouldn’t betray my fear.
“You too, Mom,” she replied softly, her eyes avoiding mine for just half a second, a pause so small most parents would miss it.
At 7:40 a.m., I left the house as usual, keys in hand, waving through the window like every other weekday morning.
At 7:48, instead of driving away, I parked around the corner, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure someone could hear it through the windshield.
I sat there for a moment, staring at my hands on the steering wheel, telling myself I was being paranoid, dramatic, unreasonable.
Then I got out of the car.
I let myself back into the house quietly, locking the door behind me, careful not to turn on a single light.
The silence inside felt heavier than noise, thick with the kind of tension that presses against your ears.
I went straight to my daughter’s room, my footsteps slow, measured, afraid of what I might find and even more afraid of finding nothing.
Everything looked perfect.
The bed was made tight.
The backpack was gone.
Her shoes were missing from the doorway.
No sign she’d been there since morning.
Relief tried to rise in my chest, but something else followed close behind it, something sharper, more insistent.
I crouched down and slid under her bed, the movement awkward, my knees protesting against the floor.
Dust coated my palms immediately, and I fought the urge to cough as it filled my nose and throat.
My phone buzzed once in my pocket, and I silenced it instantly, my fingers trembling.
I lay there staring up at the wooden slats above me, watching the clock on my screen with painful focus.
9:05 a.m.
My legs started to cramp, and my mind whispered that I was overreacting, that good mothers trust their children.
9:17 a.m.
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