For years I had responded to Kevin’s anger by lowering my own voice. That evening, something in me broke through the habit.
“Where did she go?”
“How should I know?”
“She is your daughter too.”
At last, he looked at me. His face held no worry, only irritation.
“This is my house,” he said. “You would be wise to remember that.”
The words frightened me because they were not new. Kevin’s name was on the mortgage. He controlled the main checking account, even though he called it ours. My paycheck covered groceries and small bills, but I had no savings large enough to rent a place on my own. Over time, every practical part of our life had been arranged so that leaving him seemed impossible.
I spent that night sitting on Sarah’s bed, calling until her voicemail box filled. In the following days, I contacted every friend whose name I could remember. I called hospitals and shelters. I drove past places she used to visit and stared at strangers on sidewalks, searching for the shape of her shoulders.
