My mother left me with our neighbor and never came back. The police said she vanished without a trace. Thirty-five years later, I found a videotape she hid in our basement — and it led me to a devastating secret about what really happened to her.
I was three years old the last time I saw my mother.
I don’t remember much about that last day. I was standing on our neighbor’s front porch holding my stuffed rabbit. She kneeled in front of me.
“Be good for Linda, okay?” She smoothed my hair back from my forehead.
I nodded, clutching my rabbit tighter.
I remember feeling worried, but not why.
“I’ll be back before dinner,” she promised.
Linda, our neighbor, stood in the doorway.
She was wiping her hands on a checkered dish towel, looking like the picture of suburban safety.
“Take your time,” Linda called out with a smile. “We’re making cookies.
Right, Adrienne?”
My mother looked up and smiled at her. It was a tight, distracted look.
Then she leaned down and kissed the top of my head.
“I love you so much, Addy,” she whispered.
I didn’t see her again.
I don’t have a massive library of memories from when I was three years old. Most of it’s just static, but there’s one thing that stands out.
During the week before my mother disappeared, she was constantly arguing with someone on the phone.
“… I actually keep my promises,” I heard her snap once.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said another time. The words sounded fierce, but her voice was pleading.
She started locking herself in her bedroom.
Once, I needed her help with something, so I peeked through the crack in the door.
She was sitting on the edge of the bed, crying into her hands.
A few days after she left me with Linda, the police showed up.
They didn’t look like the heroes in the picture books. They looked tired and awkward.
They stood in Linda’s living room, holding their hats in their hands like they were at a funeral.
“Ma’am, we haven’t located the vehicle,” one of them said.
Linda gripped the back of a kitchen chair.
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re still looking,” the officer replied.
They asked her a lot of questions. I watched from the hallway, hugging my rabbit.
“No,” Linda said, her voice cracking.
“Just the girl.”
“The father?”
“He passed before the child was born,” Linda told them.
That was the story I grew up with.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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