I imagined Anna hungry.
Cold.
Scared.
I imagined her alone somewhere, believing her mother had chosen a new husband over her.
And through all of it, Rick was there.
He held me when I cried.
He told me we would find her.
He told me she would eventually understand.
I believed him.
I had no idea how much he already knew.
Then, one Sunday afternoon, someone pounded on our front door.
Not a polite knock.
A hard, desperate pounding.
I ran toward it.
When I opened the door, I nearly stopped breathing.
Anna stood on the porch.
She had a backpack over one shoulder.
She was thinner than I remembered.
Her hair was tangled.
Her eyes were swollen from crying.
She looked exhausted.
And somehow, far older than eighteen.
“Baby…”
I reached for her.
I wanted to pull her into my arms.
But before I could touch her, she stepped backward.
