My teenage daughter begged to go camping with her boyfriend’s family-I said no.
She called me controlling and locked herself in her room. By midnight, her bed was still untouched. I opened her closet, expecting her suitcase.
Instead, I found a folded note and a wad of hundred-dollar bills wrapped in her old scrunchie.
My hands trembled as I opened the note. Her handwriting was messy, rushed—like she’d been shaking while writing.
“Mom, I know you won’t understand right now, but I need to do this. Please don’t panic. I’m not with his family. I overheard something I shouldn’t have—something bad. They’re not who they pretend to be. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared. I had to get out before they realized I knew.”
My heart dropped.
The money—was this her emergency escape plan?
She must’ve been saving in secret. All those extra shifts she claimed to stay after school for. All those times she said she was babysitting for “friends.”
I sat on the edge of her bed, trying not to lose it. I wanted to scream. I wanted to find her. I wanted to protect her, like I always had. But this time, she had protected herself.
The note continued:
“I’ve left clues in case I go missing. Don’t trust them. Start by checking Dad’s old toolbox in the garage. I hid something there. I love you, always.”
My blood ran cold. She hadn’t run away to be rebellious.
She’d run away because she was in danger.
And she was trying to keep us safe, too.