Instead, I went home.
That night, I stood in Sarah’s doorway.
“I’ll find you, baby,” I whispered into the darkness. “I promise.”
I didn’t know whether I could keep that promise.
A year passed.
Every Sunday night, I called Sarah’s number.
Eventually, it would ring once and disconnect.
Kevin became increasingly comfortable.
More controlling.
He checked my phone.
Questioned purchases.
Mentioned the house whenever I disagreed with him.
One evening over dinner, he pointed his knife toward the ceiling.
“You’d have nowhere to live without this roof, Maureen.”
I stared at my plate.
“I know.”
“Good.”
Then came the Thursday morning that changed everything.
Kevin left for work at seven.
At a little after ten, someone knocked.
I was working from home and expected a delivery.
I opened the door.
And stopped breathing.
Sarah stood on my porch.
My daughter.
After an entire year.
Her cheeks were thinner.
Her hair was shorter.
She wore a stained gray coat.
And in her arms was a newborn baby wrapped in a pale hospital blanket.
“Sarah?”
A sound escaped me that barely resembled her name.
