And I, though softer and less explosive than my husband, was no less scared. My daughter’s future seemed tilted into a space we could not reach. Each secret meeting with the man she refused to explain to us felt like a door shutting, creak by creak, until we were left outside, clutching keys that would never fit the lock again.
Our fears grew with every passing day. Nora returned later and later, sometimes with envelopes tucked discreetly into her tote. Once, she carried a slim hardback book with a leather cover, clearly new. Another time, it was an elegant fountain pen. Admittedly, thoughtful gifts, but not ones a nineteen-year-old usually receives.