Chapter 3

My dad stood in the dining room, his face icy as he stared at Grandma.

No doubt about it, he was thinking about all those things that happened.

Back when I went missing, Grandma claimed I ran off because I was being naughty.

But I was indeed lost when I was only five years old.

My dad could never bring himself to blame his own mother, but maybe, deep down, he did hold some grudges.

Suddenly, all those years of bottled-up frustration seemed to burst out of him.

He grabbed his briefcase, his face dark, and stormed out, slamming the door behind him with a loud bang.

Grandma, feeling guilty and angry, shouted, "What's with that attitude? Are you blaming me for everything now?"

Still fuming from my dad's outburst, Grandma clutched her chest and headed to her room to take her blood pressure meds.

As soon as Grandma went upstairs, Ryan ditched his breakfast, dug a bank card out of the drawer, and bolted out the door.

He found a place selling used motorcycles and tried to buy one with his bank card.

But his card was frozen.

He looked like he was going through withdrawal, desperate and twitchy, his face twisted with need.

He pretended he could pay with another card, but when the clerk wasn't looking, he jumped on a bike that still had the keys in it and took off.

But the brakes on that bike were busted; it was actually in for repairs.

Ryan crashed into someone and ended up badly injured himself.

He got aggressive, picking a fight with the person he hit and some bystanders.

For the next couple of weeks, the whole thing blew up online.

My dad had to shell out over a million dollars to make it all go away.

Then, with Ryan badly hurt and everyone overseas cursing and blaming them, they slunk back home like a pack of stray dogs.

Grandma was in a foul mood because of what happened to Ryan.

As soon as she pushed the door open, she yelled, "Emily, get out here, now."

But all she got in response was the pitch-black, dead silence of the room.

My dad flipped on the lights without a word.

He looked around the big, empty living room and paused, looking a bit lost.

My grandmother finally seemed to find an outlet for her anger. She snapped, "Off fooling around with some man again, I suppose! No wonder you were raised by some backwoods hick. Have you no shame?"

Ryan, propped up by Grandma, echoed irritably, "Isn't she always like that? Messes around with a few guys and suddenly thinks she's some kind of queen."

But since I came back at twelve, I never dated anyone.

Dad always ignored their crap.

Back then, when I first came home at twelve, Dad actually was pretty nice to me for a bit.

He cooked up some steaming chicken soup for me and let me stay in his own main bedroom.

He told me he was sorry for all those years I was gone.

He promised he'd never let anything bad happen to me again.

Looking at his soft, caring face, the fear I'd always felt around him slowly melted away.

I missed my foster dad so much, and finally got the courage to ask my dad if I could see him.

But the warmth on his face vanished in an instant.

His face twisted with anger as he snapped, "That foster dad of yours is a heartless trafficker. He should be locked up.

"You're never seeing him again, not in this lifetime."

I argued with him, and in my desperation, I shouted, "My foster dad isn't like that. You're the real heartless ones.

"I escaped from those traffickers, hit my head, and it was my foster dad who found me and took me in."

Grandma was so furious she called me a heartless wolf.

I lost it and shouted right back at her, "You were standing right by the window, watching while I got dragged away by those traffickers.

"I was finally happy, so why did you have to bring me back?"

Grandma wiped away her tears and said I was making things up about her.

Ryan patted Grandma on the shoulder and accused me of spreading lies.

My dad was so furious that, for the first time, he slapped me.

He said, "How could your grandma stand there and watch you get taken away? How could you say something like that? What have you become?"

I was so stunned by the slap that I stood there, frozen.

I didn't get it. Dad had promised he'd be good to me.

Why couldn't he believe me? Why did he always doubt everything I said?

Dad promised he'd never let me suffer again, so why did he turn around and slap me so hard?

Suddenly, I remembered that my foster dad always believed me, no matter what I said.

When I was little, I got into a fight with a boy and, in a burst of anger, hit him hard enough to hurt him.

The boy's mom came storming over, dragging him along, demanding my foster dad do something about it.

My foster dad glared at her, his eyes wide and fierce like a bull's, pulling me behind him to protect me.

He said, "My baby girl would never bully anyone. If your son got smacked, he probably deserved it."

He didn't need to ask. He believed me.

People around always said he was blindly protective and never cared about right or wrong.

I missed my foster dad so much.

So late at night, I snuck out and called him from a payphone.

My foster dad came all the way to the train station to find me.

When he saw my eyes all puffy and red from crying, his heart broke for me.

I kept crying in front of him, and he couldn't stand it; he gave in and took me back to his home.

He said he'd call my dad and bring me back in a couple of days.

But before he could reach out, my dad showed up with a whole squad of cops at his door.

My dad accused my foster dad of kidnapping a minor, and because of that, my foster dad ended up in prison.

I still remember that night. I begged him to let my foster dad go.