My daughter came home a month after my wedding. Then she asked my husband about a familiar name. Everything changed.

“She’s eighteen,” he said. “You’re getting married. That’s a huge change for her.”

It sounded reasonable.

It sounded like exactly the kind of explanation a loving stepfather might give.

So I believed him.

That decision would haunt me later.

On the morning of our wedding, Anna said she was sick.

She refused to come.

I knew something wasn’t right.

I wanted to stay home.

I wanted to sit beside my daughter and ask her what was really happening.

But Rick convinced me to give her space.

“She needs time,” he said.

So I went.

I got married while my daughter stayed home.

It was the worst mistake I could have made.

When we returned, Anna was gone.

At first, I thought she had simply gone to a friend’s house.

Then I found the letter.

It was short.

She said she never wanted to see me again.

My hands shook as I read it.

I called her phone.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

I contacted relatives.

Her friends.

Everyone who might know where she was.

Nobody did.

I called the police.

But Anna was eighteen.

She was legally an adult, and there was no evidence that she had been forced to leave.

The police told me that because she appeared to have left voluntarily, there was little they could do.

For the next month, I barely slept.

Every unfamiliar car outside made me look through the window.

Every phone notification made my heart race.

I imagined Anna hungry.

Cold.

Scared.