“My neighbor insisted she saw my daughter at home during school hours… so I pretended to leave for work and hid under the bed. Minutes later, I heard multiple footsteps moving down the hallway.”

My name is Olivia Carter, and I always thought I knew everything about my 13-year-old daughter, Lily. After my divorce two years ago, it had just been the two of us in our small house in a quiet Massachusetts suburb. She was responsible, intelligent, polite; she never caused any trouble. At least, that’s what I thought.

One Thursday morning, as I was leaving with my work bag, my elderly neighbor, Mrs. Greene, waved at me.

—Olivia— she said gently—, is Lily skipping school again?

I was stunned. —Absent? No… she goes every day.
Mrs. Greene frowned. “But I always see her coming home during the day. Sometimes with other children.”