She said she was sorry.
She said she couldn’t stay.
She said she didn’t want to see me anymore.
My hands started shaking.
I called her phone.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
I called her friends.
Her relatives.
Her college contacts.
Nobody knew where she was.
I called the police.
But Anna was eighteen.
There was no clear evidence that she had been abducted.
She had left a note.
So the police told me they had limited options unless new evidence appeared.
The next thirty days were the longest of my life.
I barely slept.
I kept Anna’s bedroom door open.
I left her favorite blanket on the bed.
I checked my phone hundreds of times a day.
And every time it didn’t ring, I felt another piece of hope disappear.
Rick stayed beside me.
He brought me food.
He drove me around looking for her.
He held me when I cried.
Sometimes I wondered what I would have done without him.
Then, one Sunday afternoon, someone began pounding on our front door.
I ran downstairs.
The pounding came again.
Harder.
Desperate.
I opened the door.
And stopped breathing.
Anna was standing there.
She had a backpack over one shoulder.
Her clothes were wrinkled.
