But in the weeks leading up to my 18th birthday, something strange began to happen.
It started with emails.
The first one came from an address I didn’t recognize.
Happy early birthday, Emma. I’ve been thinking about you. I’d love to talk.
No name. No context. So, I ignored it.
Then came a Facebook friend request from a profile with no picture. The name was Sarah W. The request sat in my inbox, unanswered.
And then, on the morning of my birthday, there was a knock at the door.
I almost didn’t answer. My parents were in the kitchen, making my special birthday breakfast—pancakes and bacon, just like every year. But something about the sound of that knock made my stomach clench.
I didn’t know why, but I felt like something bad was about to happen.
“Could you get the door, honey?” Mom asked, flipping the bacon.
“Sure, Mom,” I said, wiping my hands.
