For illustrative purposes only
The Drawer I Kept Locked
That night, I checked the bottom drawer of my dresser.
The folder was still hidden beneath my winter sweaters. Inside were Lucy’s adoption papers, one letter I had never given her, and a silver baby bracelet. On the back was one word: “Lulu.”
That was what Elijah and Agnes had called her before she became mine.
They were Lucy’s biological parents.
I had always planned to tell Lucy when she was ready. That was what I told myself for years. But by the time she turned 15, I knew the truth was not really about her readiness.
It was about my fear.
I was scared she would want Elijah and Agnes. Scared she would look at me and see only a woman who had been given a child, not a mother.
I closed the folder.
“What’s that, Mom?”
I spun around.
Lucy stood in my bedroom doorway, her eyes fixed on the locked drawer.
“Nothing,” I said too quickly. “Just some old paperwork.”
“If it’s nothing, why did you jump?”
“You startled me.”
“You never locked that drawer before.”
I slipped the key into my palm.
“I’m allowed to have private things.”
“So am I,” she said. “But when I hide something, you call it attitude.”
Her words landed harder than I wanted to admit.
“What do you think I’m hiding, baby?”
“I don’t know yet.” She looked past me at the drawer. “Is it about me?”
My throat closed.
Instead of answering, I said the one thing that proved I was hiding something.
“Pack for your trip,” I said softly.
Her face changed.
“That’s an answer.”
She backed away.
“I can pack myself.”
The Last Morning Before the Lake
The next morning, Lucy climbed onto the bus beside Zoe without looking back.
I stood there, trying not to let my fear show.
“Text me when you get there,” I said.
“I know.”
“I love you.”
She held my gaze for one second too long.
Then she said, “Bye, Mom.”
Zoe leaned across the aisle.
“I’ll make sure she sends pictures.”
On the first day, Lucy did send photos. There was one of her diving into the lake, another beside Zoe near the barbecue grill, and one by the campfire with a flaming marshmallow.
I texted back, “Careful, Lu.”
She looked so happy in those pictures that, for a few hours, I let myself believe the trip was helping. Maybe space was what she needed. Maybe she would come home softer. Maybe we would talk.
But the next day, every call went straight to voicemail.
At first, I told myself they were swimming. Then I thought her phone had died. By two o’clock, I had sent three messages. At three, one of the teachers called.
“Violet,” he said, and his voice was wrong. “We can’t find Lucy.”
My body went cold.
“What do you mean?”
“She was with everyone on the beach. Zoe said Lucy went back to the tent. When Zoe checked, Lucy was gone.”
“Gone where?”
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