Sarah’s bedroom door stood open. She never left it that way when she was out. As I moved closer, I saw bare hangers swaying inside the closet. Her favorite blue jacket was gone. So were her backpack, her shoes, and the framed photograph of us from her sixteenth birthday.
I heard a knife scrape across a plate in the kitchen.
Kevin sat at the counter spreading butter on a piece of bread. He looked as calm as if I had returned from the grocery store instead of a three-day trip.
“Where is Sarah?” I asked.
He did not raise his head. “She left.”
“Left for where?”
“I told her it was time to go.”
My suitcase slipped from my hand. “You sent our daughter away?”
“She is eighteen, Maureen. An adult. I was tired of her attitude and tired of paying for someone who showed no gratitude.”
