My daughter vanished on prom night, and for 11 months I blamed the boy I had forbidden her to love. Then I found her dress hidden in my son’s room, along with letters that proved the truth was far more painful than any story I had told myself.
The last photo I have of Livia was taken at 5:12 p.m. on our front porch.
She stood in a pale blue dress, her hand linked through Liam’s arm, wearing that impatient teenage smile.
“Stay together tonight,” I told them.
Liam smiled. “We always do, Mom.”
Livia rolled her eyes. “Mom, we’re 18, not eight.”
“I know,” I said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s why I’m nervous.”
