My neighbor kept insisting she spotted my daughter at home during school hours. To be sure, I pretended to leave for work—then hid beneath the bed. Minutes later, I heard more than one set of footsteps crossing the hallway.

Lily had been quieter. Her appetite, once robust, had dwindled to picking at her dinner. There were dark circles under her eyes that concealer couldn’t quite hide. I had chalked it up to the academic rigor of middle school, the growth spurts, the hormones.

But what if it was something else?

That night over dinner—pasta with marinara, her favorite—I watched her like a hawk. She seemed normal. Polite. Calm. When I casually mentioned Mrs. Greene’s comment, expecting a shocked denial, Lily stiffened. It was a micro-reaction, a split-second tensing of her shoulders, before she shrugged it off with a laugh that sounded a fraction too bright.

“Oh, Mom, you know Mrs. Greene,” Lily said, twirling her fork. “She probably saw the mailman and thought it was me. I’m at school, I promise. My attendance record is perfect.”

She smiled at me. But for the first time, I saw that the smile didn’t reach her eyes. Behind the hazel irises, something trembled—a frantic, caged fear.

I went to bed, but sleep was a stranger. My mind circled the possibilities like a vulture. Drugs? Boys? A secret life I knew nothing about?

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