My daughter begged to spend the summer in Florida with her father and stepmother. I brought her sunscreen, food, and a new bathing suit. Then I said farewell with a kiss. Three days later, the school called me.
I said she was out of state because I was confused. The secretary paused for a time before responding, “She’s right here and won’t say where she’s been.”
I almost let go of the phone. When I asked to talk to her, I was very nervous. I heard her voice, and all she asked was, “Can you come get me?”
No tears. Don’t worry. Just flat. Nothing. I left work and didn’t lock the door to my office. It felt like hours to drive for twenty minutes.
She was at school with her backpack on and her hoodie up. In July. In the state of Florida. I held her tight. “Hey there, honey, what’s going on?” I asked. She just asked, “Can we go home?”
She finally spoke halfway down the road and begged, “Please don’t make me go back there.”
She shut herself in her room at home. I tried to get in touch with her father. No answer. Tasha, his wife, didn’t answer. The next morning, I texted again: “She’s here.” It’s safe. What went wrong?
He said, “What are you saying?”
I called. I told her, “She left your house three days ago.” “You texted me that she made it there safely.”
He thought about it. “I thought she was in her room.” She hasn’t said much… I didn’t really look.
“You didn’t know your daughter had been gone for three days?” My voice shattered. “Mateo, she’s twelve,”
She was honest that night. “He was never there. Tasha didn’t want me to be there. Said I was “too much like you.” They were fighting. Very loud. He left. After that, she did. “I woke up on my own.”
“How long?” I inquired.
“Quite a while.” I was scared. I made an effort to call him. No answer. At that point, I phoned a cab.
“Did you have cash?”
She pulled out a twenty-dollar bill that was wrinkled up. “He gave it to me at the airport.”
She told the driver to take her home. She remembered the school address the best and told him that.
A manila envelope arrived a few days later. There is no address to return to. The same twenty people are inside. And a note:
She was braver than most grownups I’ve met. I hope she’s fine.
That stranger brought her back to me.
The next few weeks were horrible. I had nightmares, stillness, and therapy. She gradually got less tough. Laughed once more. Then one day she found an old photo album from before the divorce.
“Why did you and Dad split up?” she said.
“We wanted different things.” I wanted to start a family. He wanted something else.
She nodded. “I don’t think he wanted me either,” she said.
My heart broke. ” ” That’s not correct. He’s just… lost.
A few weeks later, Mateo called. He apologized. He indicated he was going to see a therapist. Asked for a chance to make things right.
She said no. But wrote him a letter. She said she wasn’t ready, but maybe one day. A month later, he sent ten pages that he had written by hand. Honest. Sorry. She read it twice and then said, “Okay.”
They started to talk cautiously, on her terms. Calls that are short. Zooms. She told me to forgive him one day. “I want us all to be okay,” she replied. “Even though it’s not the same as it used to be.”
By September, she had transformed. Stronger. More brave. She even spent a weekend with him while someone watched. She said, “Still strange, but good.”
I don’t know if their relationship will ever be what she wanted it to be. But I do know that she’s not terrified anymore. Of saying anything. Of going. Of asking for what she wants.
What about me? I learned that the people we think will protect us won’t always do so. But sometimes, a stranger in a cab, a secretary, or a twelve-year-old youngster shows us what true strength is.
It is not easy to heal. But it all starts with being honest.
Even if all you say is, “I’m not ready.”
