I had no idea that trip would make her question everything I had ever told her.
At first, everything went perfectly.
Every day, Lily sent pictures.
Palm trees.
Souvenir shops.
Her friends making ridiculous faces.
She called every evening and talked so fast I could barely respond.
Then came the final day.
She stopped answering.
Hours passed.
Finally, one message appeared.
I’m coming home.
That was it.
No heart.
No emoji.
No picture.
Nothing.
Before Los Angeles, Lily told me everything.
She would come through the front door after school, throw down her
and follow me into the kitchen while telling me every detail of her day.
Even when she had done something wrong, guilt usually brought her into my bedroom before midnight.
“Promise you won’t get mad?”
“I promise I’ll listen.”
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And then the whole story would pour out.
Lily had never been good at hiding things from me.
So I told myself she was tired.
Jet lag.
Teenage moodiness.
Anything.
Then she came home.
And I knew immediately that something was wrong.
Normally, after even one night away, she would run into my arms.
This time she walked straight past me.
No hug.
No smile.
She dragged her suitcase upstairs.
Then locked her bedroom door.
She had almost never done that.
I knocked.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
“Lily.”
“Can you please just leave me alone?”
Over the next week, things got worse.
She barely ate.
She kept her phone facedown.
But every time it buzzed, she flinched.
If a car slowed outside our house, she rushed to the window and watched until it drove away.
Whenever I mentioned Los Angeles, she became furious.
“Stop asking me about that place!”
At first, I assumed she had fought with a friend.
Maybe been embarrassed by a boy.
But none of that explained the fear.
And none of it explained why she kept looking at me like I had betrayed her.
I finally decided to call one of the teachers.
Before I could, she called me.
“How is Lily doing after everything?”
I froze.
“After what?”
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