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“I’m going to clear my head, Mom,” she said quietly, kissing the baby’s forehead.
“Okay, sweetheart,” I replied, stirring oatmeal on the stove.
But she never came back.
I didn’t notice the folded note sitting on the counter near the coffeepot. Not until the next morning, when I was cleaning up after another sleepless night.
The words on it were brief, just one sentence scrawled in her handwriting: “Mom, I can’t do this. Don’t try to find me.”
I called her phone 20 times that day. Then 50.
Then I lost count.
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