And she almost had. Almost.
That summer, Sophie seemed happier than she’d been since her father died — tan, sun-bleached, laughing again.
“You look happy, sweetheart.”
“I am. I really am.”
“Everything okay up there?”
There was one girl from housekeeping who kept coming up in our calls.
“So my friend and I went hiking on our day off.”
“Which friend?”
A tiny pause. Just half a beat.
“Just a girl from housekeeping. You don’t know her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Don’t come in.”
Another pause.
“Mia.”
I let it go.
My daughter was nineteen. She was allowed friends I didn’t know.
But after that, I started noticing how often she hesitated when I asked about her summer.
“Everything okay up there?”
“Sophie, is something wrong?”
“Everything’s great, Mom. Stop worrying.”
That Saturday morning I left before sunrise. The highway was empty and gold.
I called her from a gas station outside town.
