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school friends were from broken homes and while I sympathized with their unique problems, I saw Faith begin to adopt their mode of operation in her dealings with Dan and myself. And their extreme MOs did not fit into our family dynamics.
    Anger began to take seed when Faith compared her life to her friends’ lives and felt that since two divorced parents — many times competing and vying for their child’s affection — bent the rules and overcompensated with her friend, that we should do the same with her. Of course, we did not.
    Faith came to hate the word “no.”
    Because she’d flowed pleasantly in earlier years, we’d not had to often refuse her what she wanted and needed.
Now, the variables — her wants — began to drastically change.
    But Dan and I tried to be patient through those times.
    At thirteen and fourteen, things got worse.
    â€œNo, you will not go to that concert in Atlanta,” Dan all but shouted, unusual for him. He’d always been the more patient one. “I won’t have my daughter sleeping in the park all night. God only knows what could happen.”
    â€œBut Daddy, Geena, Patty and Laura are going. We’ll be chaperoned by one of the mothers.”
    â€œNo. I don’t care who’ll chaperone. Females are vulnerable in that kind of setting, especially in a big city like Atlanta.”
    Faith was fuming. I could tell, even though she didn’t say anything more. Dan sensed it, too. “Faith, do not — I repeat — do not buck me on this because if you do, I’ll — I’ll whip you. I don’t want to do that, but I forbid you to go to that concert. Do you understand?”
    I held my breath, struck by how things had spun from negotiation to drastic ultimatums so quickly.
    Faith, eyes set straight ahead, face unreadable, nodded slightly.
    â€œGood. Then we understand each other.”
    I knew Dan used the threat as a last, desperate resort. He was terrified that something bad would happen to her. We’d just that week read about a woman and her two daughters being abducted and murdered while vacationing in a remote area of a South Carolina state park.
    But when Dan relayed this information to Faith, she was not impressed.
    The next day, the day of the planned exodus to Atlanta, Dan and I drove to the school to pick up Faith. She was not there waiting as usual. Dan and I began to
grow uneasy and asked some students standing nearby if they’d seen Faith.
    â€œShe left in a blue Ford Lexus,” one girl told Dan.
    â€œThat’s Laura’s car,” I said, a knot of dread tightening my chest. We drove to Laura’s house where the car was already being packed. I could see luggage in the open trunk. Dan strode to the porch and banged on the door. When Laura answered, Dan demanded, “I want to talk to Faith.”
    â€œShe’s not here.”
    â€œI know she is,” Dan insisted. “And if she doesn’t come with me, I’ll report you to the police for harboring a minor.” His threat was, again, out of desperation and at the same time, I think he would have followed through.
    Laura disappeared into the house. Presently, Faith came out and without a word climbed into the car. Her face was closed. Resigned.
    The ride home was silent. When we got home, Dan sat Faith down in the den. “Faith, I told you that if you disobeyed me on this, that I’d whip you, didn’t I?” he said softly. She nodded, eyes straight ahead. “I have to follow through. Come on upstairs, Faith.”
    I knew Dan would rather cut off his right arm than do this. “Deede,” he’d said to me as we’d driven to Laura’s to pick up our daughter, “I’m losing control of the situation. I have to get her attention. Make her see that this is the wrong way.”
    Faith followed him up the stairs, her back straight, chin high. My emotions swirled and agitated in a