The discomfort wasn’t just in my head.
From the moment we arrived at the hospital, there was a current of dismissal from the staff, a hesitation when they saw it wasn’t the typical accident or illness.
Questions felt more like accusations aimed at me—how had I let this happen, why hadn’t I noticed?
It was as if we were already guilty until proven innocent, and the authorities knew something I didn’t yet see.
Then came the police dog, brought in to search the house and surroundings.
It was routine procedure, they said, but every wag of the dog’s tail and every alert it gave seemed to peel back layers of our carefully contained life.
Looking back, the path to this moment had been a slow, creeping dread.
First, the sudden change in my daughter’s behavior—withdrawn, reluctant to talk.
Then, the subtle decline in my partner’s explanations about where my daughter had been during the day.
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