My daughter hadn’t replied for a week, so I drove to her house. My son-in-law insisted she was “on a trip.” I almost believed him—until I heard a muffled moan

No messages. No calls. No playful photos of her coffee. No “Love you, Mom,” typed at midnight the way she always did when insomnia found her.

So I drove four hours through rain to the small white house she shared with her husband, Mark.

He opened the door smiling.

Too quickly.

“Claire,” he said, blocking the entrance with one arm. “What a surprise.”

“Where is my daughter?”

His smile twitched. “She’s on a trip.”

“What trip?”