My daughter vanished on prom night, and for 11 months I blamed the boy I had forbidden her to love. Then I found her dress hidden in my son’s room, along with letters that proved the truth was far more painful than any story I had told myself.
The last photo I have of Livia was taken at 5:12 p.m. on our front porch.
She stood in a pale blue dress, her hand linked through Liam’s arm, wearing that impatient teenage smile.
“Stay together tonight,” I told them.
Liam smiled. “We always do, Mom.”
Livia rolled her eyes. “Mom, we’re 18, not eight.”
“I know,” I said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s why I’m nervous.”
“Stay together tonight.”
John touched my shoulder. “Camila, let them enjoy prom.”
I ignored him and looked at Livia. “And stay away from Mitchell.”
Her smile disappeared.
“Mom.”
“I’m serious.”
“No,” she said. “You know his mom. That’s not the same thing.”
“And stay away from Mitchell.”
Liam tugged her arm. “Liv, come on. We’re gonna be late.”
“Can I have one night where you trust me, Mom?”
“Trust isn’t the issue.”
She stared at me.
“It never is with you.”
Then she walked down the porch steps with Liam.
“Can I have one night where you trust me, Mom?”
That was the last time I heard my daughter’s voice.
