"She was 23."
I packed my bag the next morning. My sister's guest room was ready.
I left everything behind — except the bracelet.
As the door clicked shut, I called my daughter's number, catching her voicemail for the thousandth time. I didn't know if the line was hers anymore.
"Hi baby, it's Mom. I never stopped looking. You were right to run, but I know everything now. And if you're still out there... you don't have to run anymore."
