At first, I thought my daughter was just experimenting with makeup. Then the hidden clothes, locked door, and secret backpack made me wonder what she was really hiding.
The first thing I noticed was the eyeliner.
Not because it was good.
It wasn’t.
It was thick, uneven, and one side curved higher than the other.
Maddie came through the front door, kicked off her shoes, and headed straight for the stairs.
I stared at her. “Are you wearing makeup?”
She stopped. “No.”
I was standing three feet away.
There was mascara smudged under her eyes and lipstick on her mouth.
“Maddie.”
“It’s lip balm.”
“That’s not lip balm.”
She grabbed the strap of her backpack. “Can you please just leave it?”
Then she went upstairs and shut her bedroom door.
That was the second time in one week she’d come home looking different from the girl I’d dropped off that morning.
The first time, I convinced myself I was imagining it.
By the third time, I knew something was going on.
My name is Rachel. I’m 39, divorced, and Maddie is my only child.
She’s 13.