“I think you’re smart enough to ruin your life if you stop listening.”
The second the words left my mouth, I wished I could take them back.
Lily stepped away. “I get good grades. I stay home when you ask. I gave up parties and everything because you always had some rule. You never trust me!”
“I trust you,” I said. “I don’t trust everyone else.”
By then, we were both crying, but neither of us knew how to stop the argument.
I wished I could take them back.
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I said something I thought was wise at the time. “Women in this family finish school first. We don’t throw our futures away over feelings.”
Her eyes flashed in a way I didn’t understand then. “You don’t know everything,” she said quietly.
“No,” I answered, “but I know enough.”
She looked at me for one long moment, then turned and walked to her room.
I stood there, angry and stubborn, telling myself we’d talk in the morning.
“But I know enough.”
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But by morning, Lily was gone. Her bed was made. Half her clothes were missing, along with a small duffel bag.
The police took the report, but one detective eventually said, “Ma’am, sometimes young adults leave on purpose.”
I never forgot his words, but for three years I searched, anyway.
Hospitals. Shelters. Bus stations. Churches. I taped flyers to windows and light poles. I chased tips that led nowhere and called numbers scribbled on scraps of paper.
The police eventually labeled her a runaway because nothing came up, but still, I never stopped looking.
Because mothers don’t stop.
For three years I searched.
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