“I listed you as unavailable for ‘acute grief instability.’ I said your therapist recommended limited contact. Early calls had to be approved through me.”
“I didn’t even have a therapist.”
“I know.”
“You wrote me out of my own child’s life.”
“I paid privately,” he said. “No insurance. No mail. I didn’t want questions.”
“You wanted control.”
“No. I love her.”
“You can love someone and still do something unforgivable.”
The detective confirmed it later.
Records existed. Payments existed. A child was alive.
And hidden.
When I finally asked, “Where is my daughter?”
The answer came:
“She is currently listed as a patient.”
“She’s alive?”
“Yes.”
My legs nearly collapsed.
“Give me the address.”
“Ma’am—”
“Give me the address to my daughter.”
Two hours away.
Across state lines.
“I’m going to her,” I said.
Mark stood. “I’m coming.”
“No. You’re not.”
“You made every decision for a year. Now I make this one.”
Denise took my keys. “I’ll drive.”
The center was too quiet.
A counselor met us.
“Sophie is here. She is physically stable.”
“I’m not here for a statement,” I said. “I’m here for my daughter.”
She was in the art room.
I saw her through the window.
Older. Thinner.
Alive.
The door opened.
“Sophie? Someone’s here to see you.”
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