Mother, Daughter

My teenage daughter is missing . . . and it’s my fault.

THE DAUGHTER
I thought I loved him. That it would end in some sort of happily ever after. That the conversations that brought us together were signs. Like this was one of the miracles Mom always talked about.
But they weren’t signs at all.
They were warnings.
“I don’t want to die,” I plead, his hands wrapped around my neck. Squeezing tight. His eyes are like the ocean, dark and deep, but I don’t want to drown.
I want to breathe. This can’t be how my life ends; before it ever really began.

THE MOTHER
Now, I look through the backdoor window, wanting a clue of where she might be. I was up early this morning trying to get some writing done, I didn’t hear her in the house at all . . . which means she must have left sometime in the night?
I have kept my past a secret, but right now I wish Maple understood just how dangerous the world can be.

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