That evening, Ainsley went out with friends to celebrate. She came home late, breathless and smiling, then rushed upstairs to her room.
I stayed in the kitchen for a while, half laughing to myself at how quickly the years had passed. One day she had been small enough to sleep on my chest. Now she was a graduate, standing at the doorway of her own life.
Then someone knocked.
I opened the door and found two police officers standing on my porch.
My stomach dropped.
One of them asked, “Are you Ainsley’s father?”
When I said yes, they exchanged a look that made dread crawl up my spine.
Then the older officer said, “Sir, do you have any idea what your daughter has done?”
In one second, every secret fear a parent carries came rushing forward. Was she hurt? Had there been an accident? Had she done something reckless? Love has a strange way of imagining loss before it allows itself to hope.
My voice barely held steady.
“What happened?”
