I sent my teenage daughter to spend Easter with my mother-in-law, convinced she would be safe. Then at 2:14 a.m., a sheriff called to say my daughter was at the station. He refused to explain what had happened. I rushed out, bracing myself for the worst, because something in my chest told me this was a call I would never forget.
I jolted upright in bed, heart hammering. Lily was supposed to be staying at her grandmother Kathy’s house for the holiday, tucked safely into the guest room.crsaid'
Instead, a sheriff was on the phone telling me to come to the station immediately, and my thoughts spiraled before he could add anything else.
“Is she hurt?” I asked.
There was a pause—just long enough to make nausea rise in my throat.
“Ma’am, your daughter is here,” the officer finally said. “She is safe right now. But I need you to come in.”
