I felt it long before I could explain it, long before the word danger fully formed in my mind. A mother knows when something is off, even when the signs arrive quietly, one by one, pretending to be nothing. My daughter Maya was fifteen, an age that should have been loud, messy, and full of life. She used to move through our house like a burst of energy—music spilling from her bedroom, laughter echoing down the hall, soccer gear tossed carelessly by the door. Then that version of her began to fade. Not all at once, but slowly, like a light being dimmed a notch at a time. She stopped finishing her meals. She slept through entire afternoons. She wore baggy sweaters even when the house was warm, even when it didn’t make sense. And when she thought no one was looking, she pressed a hand to her stomach as if she were holding something in place. She told me she felt sick—dizzy, nauseous, exhausted. Some days she said her stomach hurt so badly it felt like something inside her was twisting and tightening. When I brought it up to my husband, Robert barely looked up from his phone.