My four-year-old daughter was crying because I was running late, so my family took her to the airport with them. They were flying first class with my sister’s whole family. Minutes later, they posted photos of themselves boarding, but my daughter wasn’t in any of them.
Panicked, I called and asked, “Where is she?” My mother calmly said, “She was being difficult.
She wouldn’t listen.”
Then my sister snorted from the background, saying she might be locked in a bathroom, taped up. “Good luck finding her.”
They laughed and hung up.
My hands were shaking as I raced to the airport and alerted security. They locked down every exit while I searched desperately.
When my family landed hours later, a surprise was waiting for them.
I still remember the morning everything fell apart. My alarm didn’t go off because I’d forgotten to charge my phone overnight. And by the time I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the blinds at an angle that told me I’d overslept by at least two hours.
My daughter Emma had been so excited about going to the airport with Grandma and Aunt Jessica’s family, chattering endlessly the night before about seeing the big planes and eating airport French fries.
The original plan seemed simple enough. My mother and sister were flying to Miami for some kind of beach resort vacation with Jessica’s husband, Derek, and their two kids, Madison and Tyler.
They’d offered to take Emma along for the first time, a whole week of sunshine and swimming pools. I was supposed to meet them at my mother’s house at 7:00 in the morning.
Then we’d all caravan to the airport together.
But life had other plans. When I finally stumbled out of bed at 9:15, my phone had seventeen missed calls. Emma had apparently been crying for me, asking where Mommy was.
Why wasn’t Mommy coming?
My mother’s voicemail made it clear she was annoyed. “We can’t wait any longer, Jennifer.
We’re taking her with us. You can catch up if you hurry.”
I threw on yesterday’s jeans and a sweatshirt.
Didn’t bother with makeup.
Just grabbed my keys and flew out the door. The drive to my mother’s house normally took twenty-five minutes, but I made it in eighteen, running two yellow lights that definitely turned red before I cleared the intersection. Her driveway sat empty.
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