The woman from the attendance office said one sentence that made my stomach turn cold.
“Mrs. Walker, Ava hasn’t attended a single class since Monday.”
I stared through the glass wall of my office, watching coworkers move through the hallway as if the world hadn’t just tilted beneath my feet.
“That’s impossible,” I said.
There was an uncomfortable pause on the other end.
“I understand this may be surprising.”
“No. I mean it’s literally impossible. I watch her leave every morning.”
Another pause.
Then the woman gently asked, “Do you know where she’s been going?”
I didn’t.
And suddenly, that terrified me.
My daughter was fifteen years old.
For five mornings, she had gotten dressed, packed her backpack, complained about breakfast, kissed me goodbye, and walked toward the bus stop like any other teenager headed to school.
And for five mornings, she had apparently gone somewhere else.
My name is Rachel Walker, and until that phone call, I thought I knew my daughter better than anyone.
Ava had always been the easy kid.
Not perfect.
Easy.
She did her homework without being chased. She rarely got into trouble. She liked old horror movies, strawberry Pop-Tarts, and drawing tiny flowers in the margins of every notebook she owned.
When she was little, she told me everything.
At six, she confessed that she had broken my favorite coffee mug before I even knew it was missing.
At nine, she cried because she had accidentally excluded another girl from a birthday party.
At twelve, she came into my bedroom at midnight just to tell me she had her first crush.
Then she turned fifteen.
Suddenly, every answer became one word.
“How was school?”
“Fine.”
“Anything interesting happen?”
“No.”
“Want to talk?”
“About what?”
I blamed hormones.
