I never thought I’d be the kind of father who went through his kid’s stuff. I always told myself that trust was the foundation of our relationship. But when I got that call from Mrs. Anderson, my daughter’s teacher, telling me Sabrina had been skipping school for days, I felt a cold wave of fear wash over me.
“WHAT DO YOU MEAN?! FOR DAYS?! Gosh, thanks for the call, Mrs. Anderson,” I had said, my voice tight with frustration and worry before hanging up.
Sabrina was only fourteen. Sure, she was rebellious at times, but skipping school? That was new. I’d noticed her grades slipping lately, her attitude shifting. I had chalked it up to teenage angst, but this was different. Something was wrong. And when I got home that evening and called out, “Sweetie, I’m home,” only to be met with silence, my worry deepened.
I checked her room. The bed was unmade, her desk cluttered, but there was no sign of her. It wasn’t like her to be gone without saying anything. A feeling of unease settled in my stomach as I walked back to the living room, trying to think rationally. Maybe she was with a friend? At the library? But if that were the case, why had she skipped school for days?
Then, against every instinct I had as a parent who valued his daughter’s privacy, I did the one thing I never thought I’d do—I checked her school bag. I hesitated for a moment before unzipping it, my hands slightly trembling.
I was expecting crumpled homework, maybe a forgotten lunchbox. What I didn’t expect was the thick wad of cash stuffed inside.
I pulled it out, flipping through the crisp bills—twenties, fifties, even hundreds. My pulse spiked. This was a lot of money. More money than any fourteen-year-old should have.
A thousand questions raced through my head. Where had she gotten this? Was she stealing? Dealing? I refused to believe it. This was Sabrina—my sweet, book-loving Sabrina.
Just then, I heard the front door creak open. I shoved the money back into the bag and stood up as she walked in.
“Dad?” she froze in the doorway, her face instantly guarded.
“Sabrina.” My voice was calmer than I felt. “Where have you been?”
She hesitated, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “Nowhere. Just… out.”
I took a deep breath. “Mrs. Anderson called.”
Her face paled. “Oh.”
“She said you’ve been skipping school for days. Care to explain?”
Sabrina’s eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was none.
“I…” She sighed and crossed her arms. “It’s not what you think.”
“Then help me understand,” I pressed. “Because I just found a stack of money in your backpack, and I have no idea what’s going on.”
Her eyes widened, but instead of guilt, I saw something else. Fear.
“I didn’t steal it,” she said quickly. “I swear.”
“Then where did it come from?” I demanded.
She bit her lip, debating whether to tell me. Finally, she exhaled sharply. “I’ve been working.”
I blinked. “Working?”
“At the mall. A café. After school.” She hesitated. “Well, instead of school.”
I felt my head spin. “Why would you skip school to work?”
She looked down, twisting her fingers. “Because I needed the money.”
“For what?”
She didn’t answer right away. Then, in a voice so quiet I almost didn’t hear it, she whispered, “For Mom.”
It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. “What?”
She finally met my eyes, hers filled with determination. “She reached out to me. A few weeks ago. She said she needed help. That she was in trouble.”
My stomach twisted into knots. My ex-wife had left us years ago. She had problems—serious ones—but she had made her choice. She had walked away. And now, she was dragging our daughter into it.
“Sabrina,” I said carefully, “what kind of trouble?”
“She didn’t say exactly. Just that she needed money and that she didn’t have anyone else to ask.”
I felt a mix of anger and heartbreak. How could she do this? How could she put this kind of burden on a child?
“How did you even meet up with her?” I asked.
She hesitated. “She told me not to tell you. She said you wouldn’t understand.”
I rubbed a hand over my face, trying to keep my emotions in check. “Sweetie, your mom… she’s not well. She’s made bad choices. And this—asking you for money—it’s not okay.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “But she’s my mom.”
I softened. “I know.” I stepped closer, placing my hands on her shoulders. “But she’s an adult, and it’s not your job to fix her mistakes. You should be in school, hanging out with friends, not worrying about things like this.”
Her face crumpled. “I just wanted to help.”
I pulled her into a hug. “I know you did. And I love you for it. But this isn’t the way.”
We stood there for a moment before she finally whispered, “What do we do now?”
I sighed. “First, you’re going back to school. And I’m going to handle this.”
She nodded against my chest, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like I had my daughter back.
Later that night, after tucking her into bed, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at my phone. I knew what I had to do.
I dialed the number Sabrina had saved for her mother. When she picked up, her voice was soft, almost hesitant. “Sabrina?”
“No,” I said firmly. “It’s Phillip.”
There was silence on the other end.
“We need to talk.”
This story was inspired by real people and events. Names and places have been changed for privacy reasons.
