I took one last photo before my daughter disappeared across the water. Forty-five minutes later, the boat still hadn’t returned, and that picture was the only thing I had left to look at.
Our daughter Maya turned 16 that summer.
She spent more time talking to her friends than to us, rolled her eyes whenever I asked about her day, and insisted I worried too much.
She wasn’t entirely wrong.
I did worry too much.
When she was little, she’d slip her tiny hand into mine without thinking.
By 16, she’d mastered the teenage version of affection.
A quick hug before school.
A distracted, “Love you, Mom,” while already halfway out the door.
The hugs had become shorter.
The conversations had become fewer.
I understood it was part of growing up.
That didn’t make it any easier.
When my husband, Daniel, suggested a week at a tropical beach resort before Maya started her junior year, she immediately shook her head.
“I already told Emma I’d go shopping with her.”
“You can shop any weekend,” I said.
“This is different. I’ll miss everything.”
Daniel smiled.
“What exactly are you going to miss for one week?”
She crossed her arms.
“Life.”
I laughed.
“You’ll survive.”
She looked completely unconvinced.
It took two weeks of negotiations before she finally agreed.
We promised she wouldn’t have to spend every minute with us.
She could sleep in.
Meet other teenagers.
Go to the resort activities.
As long as we always knew where she was.
The morning we boarded the plane, Daniel leaned toward me.
“You know this is probably the last one.”
“What is?”
“The last family vacation she’ll actually want to take.”
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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