My quiet return. I hadn’t seen my daughter in eight years when I set foot on California soil.

I rang the doorbell and waited.

There was no answer.

I tried again. Every day. My driver had already left, and I stood there with my suitcase, feeling more and more ridiculous.

Then I saw the front door. It wasn’t properly closed.

“Thank you?” I asked as I stepped inside.

The silence was thick. As if the house were holding its breath.

I heard the faint sound of running water and something scraping against the tiles. I followed the sound down the hallway to the kitchen.

That’s when I saw her.

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