Instead, she simply walked away.
By sunset, I was still angry.
By midnight, I was scared.
By morning, fear had become something physical lodged inside my chest.
I called every friend I knew.
Then their parents.
I drove through neighborhoods, parking lots, side streets, anywhere a seventeen-year-old girl might go after fighting with her mother.
When the police arrived, I gave them every detail.
Seventeen years old.
Dark hair.
Green tank top.
Cream-colored knitted beach bag.
Brass keychain.
I repeated those details so many times that eventually they stopped sounding like my daughter and started sounding like a description from a poster.
For months, every ringing phone made my heart race.
For years, I studied girls in supermarkets.
A familiar laugh could make my hands shake.
Dark hair seen from behind could ruin my entire afternoon.
I kept Gia’s toothbrush in our bathroom for nine years.
Removing it felt like giving up.
