A local woman missing- Mary Kubica

LEO
NOW
I don’t go to the hypnosis. I go to school because Dad makes me go.
He’s worried I’ve missed so many days that I’m starting to fall
behind.
The day sucks as school days do. When I get home, you and Dad
are in the kitchen. I come in and overhear you tell Dad that you’re
sorry. I hang back, by the door, watching you, wondering what you’re
sorry for. You look so small. You stare down at your hands, picking at
hangnails that you’ve torn and bitten off.
Dad’s bought you clothes of your own and, even though they fit
right, they’re not right. Girls don’t wear clothes like that these days
because Dad had to shop in the little-girls section and not the one for
teens. There’s a panda bear on your shirt. It has rainbows for ears. A
girl like Piper Hanaka wouldn’t be caught dead wearing that.
“I’m sorry, sir,” you say again.
Dad tells you, “There’s nothing to be sorry for. You didn’t know.
How could you have known?”
There’s a quaver to Dad’s voice. I know it by heart. He just barely
manages to keep the valve closed so the waterworks don’t begin. As
I watch, Dad puts his arms out like he might hug you. You shrink
back, banging into the countertop. Dad gets the point. He puts his
arms down, knowing you’re more of a trauma victim than his
daughter. You may never be the daughter he used to know.
Dad hasn’t gone back to work since you’ve been home. He’s on
what’s called FMLA. He isn’t getting paid but that doesn’t matter
because we have money. Dad’s a workaholic. After you and Mom
left, he would rather have been at work than home with me. We
never went on vacation or did anything fun. He thinks he’s
undeserving of nice things. His car is a twelve-year-old Passat with a
hundred thousand miles on it, when he could easily afford the same
Mercedes-Benz the neighbors just got.