The woman pulled me away from the café entrance and introduced herself as Judith. Nine years earlier, she had worked at a youth shelter two towns away. Wren had arrived there frightened, exhausted, and refusing to contact anyone. Judith would not explain everything on the sidewalk, but she said Wren had become involved with someone who convinced her that coming home would put our family in danger. By the time she understood how badly she had been manipulated, shame had become another prison.
The turquoise cover-up had been one of the few things Wren kept. Years later, when Judith retired, Wren gave it to her because she could no longer bear looking at it. “She lives here,” Judith whispered. “She has a different last name now. She thinks you hate her for disappearing.” My knees nearly gave out. All those years I had imagined oceans, accidents, strangers—everything except my daughter being alive and believing she was unwanted.
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