Twelve years ago, my six-year-old daughter rode her bike home from school and never arrived. The police found only her bicycle. We searched until our hope turned hollow.
Then, one Thursday afternoon, a letter appeared in my mailbox with words that shook me: “I think I might be your daughter.”
My name’s Sarah, and I’m 48 years old now.
Twelve years ago, my life split into two distinct parts: before and after.
But that October morning, I had no idea everything was about to shatter.
My daughter, Emma, was six, a first-grader with a gap-toothed smile and a stubborn streak that secretly made me proud. We lived in Maplewood, where kids biked home from school without anyone thinking twice.
Emma took the same five-minute route every afternoon, and I’d wait by the window watching for her helmet and the soft crunch of her bike tires.
That morning, she hugged me tightly and looked up at me with those serious brown eyes. “Mommy, I’m big now.
I’ll be home quickly after school, okay?
…The story doesn’t end here, it continues on the next page 👇
