My neighbor kept insisting she spotted my daughter at home during school hours. To be sure, I pretended to leave for work—then hid beneath the bed. Minutes later, I heard more than one set of footsteps crossing the hallway.

The next morning, I delivered the performance of a lifetime.

I bustled around the kitchen, humming a tune, packing my lunch with exaggerated normalcy.

“Have a great day at school, sweetheart,” I told her as she shouldered her backpack at 7:30 a.m.

“You too, Mom,” she said softly. She hesitated at the door, looking back at me for a lingering second, before stepping out into the morning chill.

I waited.

Fifteen minutes later, I got into my car, drove out of the driveway, and turned the corner. But I didn’t go to work. I drove three blocks down, parked my sedan behind a dense row of overgrown hedges near the community park, and killed the engine.