I didn’t date much. When you’ve watched people disappear, you get selective. But last year, I met Marisa, a nurse practitioner. Polished, smart, funny. She remembered Avery’s bubble tea order, drove her to debate club when I was stuck at work. Avery was cautious but not cold. Progress.
After eight months, I thought maybe I could do this — have a partner without losing what I already had. I bought a ring and hid it in my nightstand.
Then one evening, Marisa showed up looking shaken, holding out her phone. “Your daughter is hiding something TERRIBLE from you. Look!”
Security footage: a hooded figure entering my bedroom, opening the dresser, crouching at the safe. My emergency cash and Avery’s college fund paperwork. The figure pulled out a stack of bills.
“Avery wouldn’t do this,” I whispered.
“You say that because you’re blind where she’s concerned,” Marisa replied.
I went upstairs. Avery was bent over her homework, headphones on. She smiled. “Hey, Dad. You okay? You look pale.”
“Avery, have you been in my room when I wasn’t home?”
Her smile faded. “What?”
“Something’s missing from my safe.”
