At 8:43 p.m., my father called.
I let it ring.
At 8:45, he called again.
Then my mother texted.
“Why isn’t the card working?”
Not: How is Abigail?
Not: Is she frightened?
Not even: Did you find her quickly?
The first thing my mother wanted from me after abandoning my daughter was access to my money.
I took a screenshot.
Then I answered.
“She’s safe.”
There was a pause.
My mother said, “Of course she is. We told you she was.”
I asked where they were.
“At the airport.”
I could hear announcements in the background and the rolling scrape of luggage wheels.
She sounded irritated, not ashamed.
Then she said the card had been declined when they tried to pay for something.
I told her I had locked it.
Her voice sharpened immediately.
“What do you mean you locked it?”
“It’s my account.”
“We’re traveling.”
“I know.”
