The night her daughter’s hair vanished, panic came first. Uneven strands, fallen pieces on the floor—it looked like something had been taken, not given. A mistake. A failure. The kind that makes a parent question everything.
She searched for answers in the wrong places at first. Teachers, neighbors, even the idea that someone had hurt her child. Because it was easier to believe in something external than to face what might be closer to home.
There had been signs. A note from school. A quiet mention of a concert. A small voice asking if she would come. And a familiar response: “I’ll try.” Work had always come first, wrapped in responsibility and necessity.
That evening, the choice came again—stay late, or show up. She chose work, like she had before. It felt logical. Practical. Safe.
