The wall between my daughter and me didn’t go up overnight but it felt like it did. One day Hanna was in the kitchen with me laughing about high school drama and teachers with bad breath and the next she was a ghost drifting through the hallways of our home. Every time I tried to reach out she slipped away usually with the same rehearsed line about going to see Grandpa Stuart. I tried to convince myself it was just a teenage phase or the natural pull of a fifteen year old seeking independence but deep down I knew something was fundamentally broken. I just didn’t realize that the person I shared a home with was carrying a weight heavy enough to crush an adult.

Stuart had been our rock ever since my husband Pete passed away eight years ago. When Pete had his heart attack Hanna was only seven. She was a little girl who wore a toy stethoscope over her pajamas and promised to fix the world. After the funeral Stuart stepped in not to replace Pete but to be the steady hand she needed. He taught her to ride a bike and sat through every tedious school play. So when Hanna started spending every waking hour at his house I initially felt a sense of relief. At least she was with someone who loved her. But that relief curdled into suspicion as her behavior at home grew increasingly erratic and cold.