The night I vanished, Mother was crying as she kissed me goodnight.

She tried not to show it as she hugged me for what would be the last time. But as she pulled away, she couldn’t hold it any longer. The tears flowed freely.

“I love you,” she said in a broken voice as she ran from my room. I could hear her sobbing uncontrollably. I could hear Father speaking kindly, consoling her, but I couldn’t make out his words.

Later, it grew quiet; I think Mother had fallen asleep.

Her breakdown left me wondering what was going on. Only occasionally would she ever seem sad – like she was remembering a long lost friend.

Recently she had been sad more often, but Father would tell me I was too young to be worrying about things like that. And if I argued, he would put his hand on my shoulder softly and say, “Just trust me. This isn’t something you need to worry about.”

But that night I resolved that I would go to Father in the morning and insist that he let me help.

Of course, before the morning came, I had vanished.