My name is Olivia Carter, and I always believed I knew everything about my 13-year-old daughter, Lily.
After my divorce two years ago, it had just been the two of us in our small house in a quiet Massachusetts suburb. She was responsible, smart, polite—never caused trouble. At least, that’s what I thought.
One Thursday morning, as I stepped outside with my work bag, my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Greene, waved at me.
“Olivia,” she said gently, “is Lily skipping school again?” I froze. “Skipping? No… she goes every single day.”
Mrs. Greene frowned. “But I always see her coming home during the day. Sometimes with other children.”
My heart dropped. “That can’t be right,” I insisted, forcing a smile. “You must be mistaken.”
But on the drive to work, the uneasiness wouldn’t leave my chest. Lily had been quieter lately. Eating less. Tired all the time. I’d chalked it up to middle school stress… but what if it was something else?
That night over dinner, she seemed normal—polite, calm, assuring me school was “fine.” When I repeated what Mrs. Greene said, Lily stiffened for half a second, then shrugged it off with a laugh
“She must’ve seen someone else, Mom. I’m at school, I promise.” But I could tell something inside her trembled.
I tried to sleep, but my mind kept circling. What if she was skipping school? What if she was hiding something? Something dangerous? By 2 a.m., I knew what I had to do.
The next morning, I acted like everything was normal. “Have a great day at school,” I told her as she walked out the door at 7:30. “You too, Mom,” she said softly.
Fifteen minutes later, I got in my car, drove down the street, parked behind a hedge, and walked home quietly. My heart pounded with every step. I slipped inside, locked the door behind me, and went straight upstairs to Lily’s bedroom.
Her room was spotless. Bed perfectly made. Desk neatly arranged. If she was coming home secretly, she wouldn’t expect me to be here.
So I lowered myself onto the carpet and crawled under the bed.
