Emma never missed piano, so when her teacher called to ask if she was okay because she “hadn’t been in two weeks,” my stomach dropped. I’d watched my daughter leave every Tuesday and Thursday at 4:00, and I suddenly had no idea where she’d been going.

Emma had loved the piano since she could reach the keys. When she was little, she sat at my mom’s old upright and picked out tiny melodies like she was telling the house a secret.

By 11, she had real lessons and genuine pride.

Tuesdays and Thursdays at 4:00 p.m., she grabbed a snack, kissed my cheek, and headed out. I worked from home, so I always watched her leave from the kitchen window.

That routine felt unbreakable until her teacher called me. Ms.

Carla didn’t sound annoyed or casual. She sounded worried.

“Hi,” she said carefully. “I wanted to check on Emma.

Is she feeling okay?”

I blinked at my screen. “She’s fine. Why?”

There was a pause.

“She hasn’t come to lessons in two weeks.”

I let out a short laugh. “That can’t be right. She’s been leaving for lessons.”

“She told me she was sick,” Ms.

Carla said. “I believed her at first. But two weeks is a long time.”

That made my blood run cold.

“She said she was sick?”

“Yes,” she said, softer. “I thought you knew.”

After I hung up, the house felt too bright. My hands stayed on the counter like it might keep me steady.

All I could think was, Where had my daughter been going?

When Emma came home, she acted normally. Backpack down, shoes kicked off, a quick story about a friend at lunch. If she was hiding something, she hid it like a pro.

“You ready for piano tomorrow?” I asked, forcing a light tone.

“Yeah,” she said too quickly.

“Of course.”

Her eyes slid away from mine, and that tiny dodge made my skin go cold. Emma loved piano. She loved talking about it.

That night, I barely slept.

I replayed every Tuesday and Thursday, every wave from the window, every disappearing backpack. I didn’t want to scare her, but my fear didn’t care what I wanted.

The next morning, I tried a softer question. “How’s Ms.

Carla doing?” I asked while Emma ate cereal.

Emma’s spoon paused. “Fine.”

“You haven’t mentioned lessons lately,” I said.

She shrugged. “It’s boring.”

It wasn’t like her.

Emma didn’t shrug at things she loved. She glowed about them.

I didn’t push. If she was lying, pushing would just teach her to lie better.

On Thursday, she did the same routine.

“Bye, Mom!” she called, bright and quick.

“Bye, honey,” I said, waving from the kitchen window like always. Then I grabbed my coat, slipped out the back door, and followed her at a distance that made me feel sick.

She walked the usual route past the bakery. The smell of sugar drifted out every time the door opened.

Emma didn’t even glance at it.

At the corner where she normally turned toward the studio, she walked straight past. She didn’t slow down. She didn’t hesitate.

“Emma,” I whispered, even though she couldn’t hear me.

She headed toward the park.

The park wasn’t huge, but it had enough trees to hide in.

Emma left the main path and slipped behind a thick trunk near the back, where low branches drooped like curtains.

I stopped behind another tree, heart hammering. From where I stood, I could see her backpack and the movement of her hands. Then she pulled out her lunchbox and set it on the ground.

She spoke in a voice I barely recognized.

“I brought more today,” she said. “I got the good turkey.”

A second voice answered, older and impatient. “You’re late.”

Emma’s shoulders stiffened.

“I’m not late. I just… my mom watches me now.”

I leaned to the side to see around the trunk.

That was when I saw the carrier.