My daughter called me almost every evening that summer, yet somehow managed to keep the biggest secret of her life from me.

I only discovered the truth when I drove three hours to bring her home—and saw what she was carrying in her arms.

That Saturday morning, I found myself humming along with the radio as I headed toward the lakeside resort where Sophie had been working for the summer.

Her favorite cinnamon rolls sat on the passenger seat beside a cup of coffee that had gone cold somewhere along the highway.

I didn’t care.

I was excited to see her.

Ever since my husband, Daniel, died five years earlier, Sophie and I had been each other’s constant.

Our house had become quiet after his death, but eventually we created our own routines.

Dinner together whenever possible.

Sunday-night movies.

And whenever Sophie was away at college, she called me almost every evening.

So when she announced that she had accepted a summer job at a resort three hours from home, I told myself it was a good thing.

She was nineteen.

She needed independence.

She needed adventures that didn’t involve worrying about her widowed mother.

Still, on the morning she left, I hugged her longer than necessary in the driveway.

“You’ll call me, right?”

She laughed.

“Every night, Mom. I promise.”

And for the most part, she did.

That summer, Sophie sounded happier than she had since her father died.

She was constantly talking about hiking, swimming in the lake, and exploring nearby towns with coworkers.

Whenever we video-called, she looked different.

Tanned.

Her hair lighter from the sun.

Laughing more easily.

“You look happy, sweetheart,” I told her one evening.

“I am,” she said. “I really am.”

There was only one thing that began bothering me.

A girl from housekeeping kept coming up in Sophie’s stories.

One night, Sophie casually mentioned going hiking.

“My friend and I went on this trail near the lake today.”

“Which friend?”

There was a tiny pause.

Barely noticeable.

“Just a girl from housekeeping. You don’t know her.”

“What’s her name?”

Another hesitation.

“Mia.”

I didn’t think much of it at first.

Sophie was nineteen years old.

Of course she had friends I didn’t know.

But after that conversation, I began noticing something strange.

Whenever I asked about Mia or tried to get more details about Sophie’s life at the resort, my daughter suddenly became vague.

“Everything okay up there?” I asked once.

“Everything’s great, Mom. Stop worrying.”

So I did my best to stop.

Or at least pretend to.

When summer finally ended, I volunteered to drive up and bring Sophie home.

I left before sunrise.

About forty minutes from the resort, I stopped for gas and called her.

“I’m almost there, honey.”

“Okay.”

Then she hesitated.

“Mom, when you get here, can you wait outside the employee building?”

I frowned.

“Why?”

“Just don’t come inside.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Her answer came too quickly.

“It’s just easier if I come out to you.”

“Sophie, is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong. I just want to see you.”

I told myself she was simply being nineteen.

Private.

Independent.

Maybe embarrassed by her messy room.

I had no idea how wrong I was.

I arrived at the resort shortly before eleven and parked exactly where Sophie had instructed me.

Beyond the employee building, sunlight glittered across the lake.

I turned off the engine and waited.

Any second now, Sophie would walk through those doors.

My summer of missing her would finally be over.

Then the door opened.

Sophie stepped outside.

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