BEFORE I COULD FULLY UNDERSTAND WHAT I WAS LOOKING AT, SHE STARED STRAIGHT AT ME AND WHISPERED,
“Mom… she’s mine now.”
My name is Karen, and Sophie is my only child.
Ever since her father passed away five years ago, it had been just the two of us.
Losing him had brought us closer. Sophie had always been truthful with me, and even during her teenage years, she rarely went an entire day without calling or telling me what was happening in her life.
So when she accepted a summer position at a lakeside resort three hours from home, I tried my best to encourage her.
But I was still her mother.
“You’ll call me, right?” I asked before she left.
Sophie smiled.
“Every night, Mom.”
And she came close to keeping that promise.
Throughout the summer, she told me about her shifts, her roommates, demanding guests, and the friends she was making.
As the weeks went by, she sounded happier.
More confident.
More independent.
By the end of August, though, I was impatiently counting down until she came home.
That Saturday morning, I drove to the resort to pick her up.
When I was nearly there, Sophie texted me and asked me to wait outside the employee building.
I thought nothing of it.
A few minutes later, the door opened.
