Kevin sat at the kitchen counter, calmly spreading butter on a piece of bread.
He didn’t look up. He kept dragging his butter knife across a slice of sourdough, like a man with no worries.
“She left.”
“She left?”
“I told her to.”
My suitcase slid from my fingers and hit the tile with a crack that seemed too loud for the quiet house.
“Where is she?”
I braced a hand on the counter because my knees felt weak.
“You did WHAT?!”
“She’s 18, Maureen. She’s an adult. I got tired of her sitting around, eating our food, living off my paycheck.”
I screamed until my throat burned. I grabbed the plate right out from under his knife and threw it against the wall behind him. Ceramic sprayed across the floor.
He didn’t flinch.
“You did WHAT?!”
“Where did she GO?!”
“How would I know? She’s grown.”
“She’s my DAUGHTER!”
“And this,” my husband said, finally lifting his eyes to mine, “is my house. Try to remember that before you break anything else.”
***
I didn’t sleep that night. I sat on the edge of Sarah’s bed calling and calling, listening to the same voice tell me her mailbox was full.
“How would I know?”
I thought about leaving him. I really did.
Then I thought about the mortgage in his name, the checking account he’d opened “for both of us” that only he could really access. And my small paycheck barely covered groceries and wouldn’t cover a security deposit on a studio.
So I stayed. God help me, I stayed.
But I didn’t remain passive.
I thought about leaving him.
***
For weeks I chased ghosts.
I contacted every friend Sarah had ever mentioned. I called shelters two states over and hospitals.
I filed a missing persons report with Detective Alvarez, who was kind and honest and didn’t lie to me about the odds.
“She’s an adult, ma’am. If she doesn’t want to be found, there’s only so much we can do.”
“She wouldn’t do this. Not without telling me.”
“I hear you. I’ll keep the file open.”
I filed a missing persons report.
