My heart was pounding as I stared at the empty bed in my daughter’s room. Amber, my beautiful 13-year-old blonde-haired, freckled daughter, had been missing for a week. It was the hardest thing I had ever experienced as a mother. Every moment seemed like an eternity, every second without her an agony I couldn’t escape.
I know all parents say that, but it’s true. Amber and I had a close, deep bond. She was a happy, responsible child who always made me proud.
The police did their job, but their efforts seemed in vain.
The Green House loomed on the horizon, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. I parked the car and ran towards the building, my heart pounding.
In tears, Amber told me what had happened. She had been kidnapped by a woman who lived in the house. The woman was mentally ill, lived in isolation and had seen Amber on her way home from school. In her confused state, the woman thought Amber was her own daughter, whom she had lost years ago.
Amber said the woman was not violent, but was deeply disturbed. She had provided her with food and a place to sleep, but had prevented her from leaving, believing that the outside world was too dangerous.
A mother finds her missing daughter’s handbag. Find out where to look