Five years earlier, my daughter had vanished at sixteen.
One minute, she was slamming cabinets because her father, Paul, had forbidden her from seeing a boy named Andy, and the next, she was gone so completely, it felt like the world had swallowed her.
The police searched. Neighbors helped. My daughter’s photo sat in the grocery store window, the gas station, and every church bulletin board in town.
My daughter had vanished at sixteen.
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Nothing came back. Not one real lead. Not one answer.
Paul blamed me first in private, then like he wanted an audience.
“You should have known,” he told me the week after she disappeared.
“I didn’t know she was leaving, Paul.”
“Yeah, you never know anything until it’s too late, Jodi.”
He said worse after that, enough that I started believing him.
“You should have known.”
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***
By the third year, he had moved in with a woman named Amber and left me in the same quiet house, with Jennifer’s room shut tight at the end of the hall.
We were still married on paper. I just never found the energy to finish honte what he started.
And now there was a baby in my kitchen wearing my daughter’s jacket.
I set the basket on the table and forced myself to move.
There was a diaper bag, formula, two sleepers, and wipes. Whoever brought her hadn’t dumped her and run. They had planned this.
