Every Monday, my daughter swore she was too sick for school. I thought it was stress until the morning I caught her sneaking out. I followed her to a coffee shop, expecting an older boy or teen drama, but when I peeked through the windows, I saw her meeting someone I swore we’d never see again.
Ava shuffled into the kitchen, clutching her stomach like she was dying.
“Another stomachache?” I asked.
“Ava, this is the eighth Monday in a row.
What’s really going on?”
“Nothing’s going on,” Ava muttered. “I just feel sick.”
I studied her face, searching for tells.
As a nurse, I was pretty good at spotting when someone was faking symptoms. But as her mother?
I was starting to feel like I didn’t know my own kid anymore.
“Is someone bullying you at school?
Are you stressed about something?”
“No, Mom. I just don’t feel good.”
I knew she was lying, but if she didn’t want to tell me the truth, what could I do about it?
We used to be so close, but lately, I felt like all I did was manage her: check that her homework was done, that her chores were finished, and that she ate something nutritious at least once a day.
I glanced at the clock.
Those extra shifts I’d been picking up to save for her college fund were killing me. I didn’t even have time to talk to my daughter anymore.
“Fine,” I said, grabbing my keys.
“Stay home, but you’re seeing the doctor if this keeps happening.”
I was halfway to work when I realized I’d forgotten my ID badge.
Cursing under my breath, I made a U-turn and headed home.
I was stopped at the intersection near our house when I saw Ava standing at the bus stop, looking perfectly fine. I’d known she was lying, but I’d never imagined she was sneaking off somewhere!
When the bus pulled away, I followed it.
I had to know what Ava was up to.
As I drove, I called my supervisor and told her I couldn’t make it to work due to a family emergency.
The bus stopped in an area full of coffee shops, bookstores, and little boutiques.
I watched from my car as Ava got off and headed into a coffee shop.
I parked and sat there for a minute, trying to calm my racing heart. Ava was 15, old enough to be allowed some space to make mistakes, but what if that mistake was an older boy with bad intentions?
I approached the coffee shop’s large front window and peered inside.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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