So when Rachel suggested that Sofia spend two full weeks of summer vacation at Eleanor’s lake house outside Charleston, I didn’t see danger.
I saw a break.
Sofia loved going there. There was a big pool, a backyard full of old oak trees, a lazy orange cat that lived on the porch, and pancakes every morning if she asked nicely enough. The day she left, she was beaming — pink backpack, two dolls zipped into her suitcase, her favorite sneakers on. I bent down, fixed her hair, kissed her forehead, and told her I loved her.
Eleanor stood in the doorway smiling like a magazine ad and said, “Give me two weeks with her, Marcus. You’ll see. I’ll send her back a whole different little lady.”
I should have heard the warning in that sentence.
I didn’t.
That was my mistake.
During those two weeks, communication was strangely limited.
Every afternoon I tried to FaceTime Sofia. Every single time, Rachel or Eleanor had an excuse ready.
“She’s in the pool.” “She fell asleep early.” “We just ran out for ice cream.” “She’s playing outside.” “She’s in the bath.” “She’s too tired to talk.”
At first I let it go.
Then it started bothering me.