That evening began like any other, until my fifteen-year-old daughter suddenly said she felt unwell.

She looked pale and exhausted, her voice weak as she sat on the couch holding her stomach. I immediately suggested we go to the hospital.

Before I could even reach for my coat, my husband Daniel stepped in and insisted he would take her himself. He asked me to stay home, saying it would be quicker and that he would call once they arrived. His tone was urgent—almost anxious—but I convinced myself he was just worried about our daughter.

They left together.

Hours passed with no message, no call. I tried to stay calm, assuming they were delayed. But as the night stretched on, my concern turned into fear. I contacted the hospital. They had no record of either of them.

By morning, I reported them missing.

The days that followed were filled with waiting and uncertainty. Then investigators discovered Daniel’s car near the coastline, abandoned and damaged. What shocked everyone was that my daughter was not with him. She was simply gone.