A few days later, I decided to call Sandra’s mom, Wendy.
Part of me wanted to sound casual — like any other dad setting up a playdate — but another part of me was desperate for answers.
When Wendy picked up, her voice was warm and friendly. “Hi! This is Wendy. Sandra’s mom.”
“Hi, this is David… Sophie’s dad. The girls have been glued together at school, so I thought maybe they’d like to hang out this weekend?”
“Absolutely!” Wendy said. “Sandra talks about Sophie all the time. They even draw pictures of each other — it’s so cute.”
We agreed to meet at McDonald’s after school on Friday — a public place, where I could observe without losing my mind.
That Friday, Sophie spotted Sandra before we even walked inside. “There she is!” she said, running ahead, her blonde hair bouncing.
Wendy turned as we approached, her smile open and kind. She looked to be around my age — mid-thirties, maybe — with tired eyes that softened when she saw her daughter. She waved at me, then looked at Sophie… and froze.
Her hand, mid-wave, slowly dropped to her side.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “Hi! You must be Sophie. Sandra’s been talking about you all week.”
