My daughter kept coming home from her dad’s house without her favorite things. First her American Girl doll, then her iPad, and then my mother’s necklace went missing. Everyone said she was just being careless, but when I hid an AirTag in her hoodie, I discovered the shocking truth.
I used to think divorce was the hardest part, but I was wrong. The hardest part was watching my eight-year-old daughter transform into a shell of herself, weekend after weekend, and not knowing why. Lily had always been my sunshine with her bright smile and endless chatter about her drawings, friends, and her dreams of becoming a veterinarian.
Three months after my ex-husband, Jason, moved in with Dana and her 10-year-old daughter, Ava, something shifted in Lily’s behavior that made my stomach twist with worry. “How was your weekend, baby?” I asked as Lily climbed into my car that Sunday evening. She shrugged.
“It was okay.”
Okay. That was all I got. No stories about what movies they watched.
No excitement about the crafts Dana had promised to do with the girls. Just… “okay.”
I glanced in the rearview mirror and noticed Lily staring out the window with her hands folded in her lap. The hands that should’ve been clutching her weekend bag were completely empty.
“Where’s your backpack, sweetheart?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh no! I forgot it at Dad’s house.”
I pulled over and called Jason.
He answered on the third ring. “Kate? What’s up?”
“Lily forgot her backpack.
Can I swing by and grab it?”
“Dana already left to run errands, and I’m heading out in 10 minutes. Can it wait until next weekend?”
“She needs her homework.”
“I’ll drop it off tomorrow after work. Don’t stress about it.”
“Alright.”
The next morning, Lily appeared in the kitchen, her hair uncombed and eyes puffy.
“I don’t feel good, Mom.”
I knelt beside her chair. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“My tummy hurts. Can I stay home today?”
She’d never been one to fake an illness.
I let her stay home and called in late to work. We spent the morning on the couch as Lily curled up against me while cartoons played on the TV. Around noon, Jason knocked on the door with her backpack.
“Here you go,” he said, not bothering to come inside. “And Kate? Maybe check her stuff more carefully next time.
She’s getting careless.”
I wanted to snap back, but Lily was listening from the living room. Instead, I forced a smile. “Thanks for bringing it by.”
After he left, I helped Lily unpack.
That’s when I noticed something weird. “Where’s your American Girl doll?” I asked her. Lily’s face crumpled.
“I… I thought I packed her. I looked everywhere at Dad’s house. Maybe she fell out somewhere.”
Three hundred dollars had gone down the drain, but more importantly, a piece of my daughter’s heart was missing.
“It’s okay, honey. We’ll figure it out.”
But it wasn’t okay. That doll was special.
We’d spent an entire Saturday picking out her outfit, accessories, and even her name. Lily had saved her allowance for months to contribute to the purchase. “Maybe Dad has it and forgot to pack it,” she said.
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