My sister lived across the country and struggled financially herself.
Leaving felt impossible.
So I stayed.
That is one of the hardest things for me to admit.
I stayed in the house where my daughter had been pushed out.
I told myself I was staying so she could find me.
If Sarah came back, I wanted the phone number to remain the same.
The address.
The porch light.
Her bedroom.
I kept her room untouched.
Kevin complained.
“She’s not coming back.”
I ignored him.
I searched.
Every week.
For months.
I joined online missing-person groups.
Posted carefully.
Called shelters.
Checked hospitals where appropriate.
Revisited friends.
Nothing.
Then one day, Mia finally answered me.
She sounded terrified.
“Mrs. Carter.”
“Mia.”
“Do you know where Sarah is?”
Silence.
“Mia?”
“I can’t tell you.”
My heart stopped.
“You know?”
“She made me promise.”
“Please.”
“She said she needed time.”
“Is she safe?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I started crying.
“Thank God.”
Mia whispered,
“I’m sorry.”
“Can you tell her I love her?”
“Yes.”
“Tell her she can come home.”
Mia went silent.
Then said,
“I don’t think she believes that.”
The call ended.
I confronted Kevin.
He stared at me.
Then said,
