Back at the house, I unfolded Aria’s crayon note.
“We don’t know that,” Jackson said.
“A child who writes this doesn’t forget it.”
My goal changed.
I still wanted the truth, but first, I needed to find my daughter before she spent another day believing she had destroyed our family.
After three days, Jackson found a school counselor matching Clara’s maiden name, the town, and Aria’s age.
In her photograph, she held one elbow, just as Aria did when nervous.
“Because she looks like Clara?”
“No. Because she looks like herself.”
Jackson offered to contact her, but I refused.
I deleted two drafts, one cold and one angry.
Finally, I wrote:
“Aria, I don’t know what you were told.
I only know that I loved you when you left, and I’ve loved you every day since.
I found the note you hid. Nothing that happened was the fault of a nine-year-old girl. I won’t come unless you ask me.”
I added my number and address, then prayed as I hit send.
She called that night.
After a long silence, she asked, “Did you know where we were?”
“No.”
