By one o’clock, I had already sent her two messages. Neither received a response.
I tried again. The familiar delivered notification never appeared.
I paced through the house, desperately searching for some logical explanation for where my daughter might be.
My mind drifted back to earlier that evening when she came downstairs wearing her prom dress, and for a moment I had forgotten how to breathe.
“Well?” she had asked, twirling once. “Acceptable?”
“Acceptable is an insult. You look unreal.”
“Mom, please don’t say unreal. Nobody says unreal.”
I snapped at least twenty pictures before she finally laughed and raised a hand in surrender.
Yet even then, I had noticed something unusual in her smile. Something slightly off. I had nearly asked her about it.
Now, sitting alone in the darkness, I wished I had.
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