The night before my flight home from Chicago, Sarah had left me a voicemail.
I’d listened to it so many times that I’d practically memorized every breath.
“Mom, I need to tell you some—”
Then the message abruptly ended.
On the plane home, I pressed replay again.
Beside me, my coworker Lola closed her paperback and looked over.
“You’ve listened to that message at least ten times.”
“I’m worried.”
“About Sarah?”
I nodded.
“She sounded strange.”
Lola studied me.
“Things still tense between her and Kevin?”
“It’s nothing serious.”
Even as I said it, I knew that wasn’t entirely true.
“Sarah’s 18. She’s moody. Kevin works hard. They just rub each other the wrong way.”
Lola didn’t answer immediately.
Finally, she asked, “Is Kevin good to her?”
“He provides for us.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I looked toward the airplane window.
“My husband isn’t cruel.”
I said those words the way someone repeats a prayer they’ve stopped believing.
The truth was that as Sarah grew older, something between her and Kevin had changed.
He criticized everything she did.
Her clothes.
Her friends.
Her plans.
Even her laugh.
One evening, Sarah walked downstairs wearing a sweater she’d bought with her own money.
Kevin looked up from dinner.
“Did you get dressed in the dark?”
Sarah froze.
“Kevin,” I warned.
“What? I’m trying to help her.”
Another time she laughed loudly at something on television.
Kevin rolled his eyes.
“Does she always have to make that sound?”
“She’s happy.”
“She’s eighteen, Maureen. Stop treating her like she’s eight.”
Every comment arrived suddenly.
Sharp.
Small.
Easy to dismiss individually.
And I became very good at dismissing them.
Then there was the money.
My father had left Sarah a college fund.
