I sat down because my knees nearly gave out.
My daughter was 22.
I wish I could tell you I handled that with grace. I did not. I said ugly things. I accused her of selling herself. I asked if she had lost her mind. I asked if he was rich because I wanted to hurt her with the question before she could hurt me with the answer.
She did not scream back.
She just said, very quietly, “Please wait until I come home.”
That only made me angrier.
For the next week, I barely slept. I imagined luxury flats and hidden bank accounts and my daughter convincing herself she was in love with security. I imagined an older man buying her dependence and calling it devotion. By the time she landed, I had already built a whole ugly story in my head.
Then she walked through the arrival gate, and not one part of my story fit.
There were no diamonds. No designer bag. No polished glow of a pampered life. Chloe looked thin and tired. Her skin had a gray cast under the airport lights. There were shadows under her eyes.
