I almost refused.
Sarah and Kevin had been arguing constantly.
The night before I left, I stood in Sarah’s bedroom.
She was sitting on the floor painting her toenails.
I said,
“Are you okay if I go?”
She looked up.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“I’m eighteen.”
I smiled.
“That wasn’t my question.”
She sighed.
“I’ll be fine.”
Then she added,
“Dad mostly ignores me when you aren’t here.”
I should have listened more carefully.
I hugged her.
She hugged me back.
Then whispered,
“Call me.”
“I will.”
I left Monday morning.
I called Monday night.
No answer.
I texted.
You okay?
Sarah replied twenty minutes later.
Fine.
Busy.
Love you.
That was the last message from her for a year.
Tuesday morning, I called.
No answer.
Tuesday afternoon, I received one message.
Busy.
Wednesday night, my flight home was delayed.
I arrived just after ten.
The house was quiet.
Kevin sat at the kitchen counter spreading butter onto toast.
I noticed Sarah’s shoes were gone from beside the door.
I walked upstairs.
