53 Hours By Eunice Brownlee Recently, an acquaintance of mine posted an Instagram update that her son had been found safe. If I were still using Facebook, I would have known that he had disappeared on his own accord 39 hours earlier. I would have been able to tell her that I completely understood what she was going through because I had lived the same nightmare eighteen months before. On the evening of January 1, 2020, my daughter disappeared. New Year’s Eve, she had been given permission to stay with a friend in our neighborhood while I stayed where we were dog sitting for the week. She ditched the friend and headed to downtown Denver with a group of friends I didn’t know, like or trust. I spent hours demanding her to come home. As any thirteen-year-old is wont to do, she ignored every call and text. I knew it would be impossible to find her among the NYE crowds, so I waited and hoped she would come home safely. In full momma bear mode, I tracked her nearly dead phone and chased her down shortly after 1 a.m. She begrudgingly got in the car and received an earful. When we got back to the house we were staying at, I confiscated her phone and she silently retreated to the bedroom and did not come out until nearly thirteen hours later. I was still seething, and it was clear that so was she. She joined me in watching a Sex in the City marathon and seemed to soften a little. A few hours later, we swung home for a few things. Even though I had not yet talked to her about the night before, everything seemed fine. It was just after dark when we arrived home, and we darted in to get what we needed. As I was finishing a task in the kitchen, she called, “I’ll be in the car,” and I hollered back, “I’ll be out in two minutes.” Not more than five minutes later, I hopped into the car and turned to face an empty passenger seat. Surprised, I looked in the back seat. Nothing. I hopped out of the car and called out for her. Nothing.
11
