An open letter to my 13-year-old daughter after last Friday's disappearance

Dear Rebecca,

Laugh at me all you want for this, but I feel this might be the only way to get your attention.

Since last Friday, you have either completely ignored my texts or responded with a cursory 'K'

You have zoned me out when I have attempted to broach the subject in person and you appear to have little to no interest in resolving matters with me, but maybe this approach will help.

I've brought you up to be an avid reader, so read this, Rebecca.

Since I gave birth to you thirteen years ago, each and every single decision I have made has been with your best interests at heart.

Each and every one, Rebecca.

I know – How could that possibly be?

I've surely made hundreds of thousands of decisions from the moment I met you on that inexplicably chilly morning in 2002 until last Friday night when I decided you couldn't go out again until your Christmas holidays, so how could they all be to your benefit?

You're right, I have and, believe me, they have been.

When I say you shouldn't say or do something, I'm not saying it out of malice or a desire to irritate, I'm saying it because I feel, deep down in my heart, that it is not the right thing for you, your emotional wellbeing or your physical welfare.

For you, Rebecca.

Not for me, for you.

When you snuck out of the house last Friday night and left an empty bed for me and your father to find, I experienced a terror I will never be able to properly articulate – a fear you will never understand until you have a baby girl of your own.

When I stumbled down the stairs, threw open the front door and called your name, I hoped with every fibre of my being I'd hear a nervous response, but I didn't.

When I dialled your number with shaking fingers and heard your chirpy voice introduce your voicemail, I genuinely wondered if it would be the last time I'd hear your voice.

Your disappearance from the house that evening ignited a fear in me I hadn't yet experienced, and one which I never want to endure again.

When your friend's mother brought you home sick, tearful and disoriented, I felt a surge of love for you so fierce it almost lifted me off my feet.

You made a mistake, I've been there, Rebecca.

Choosing to sample more than a little of their liquor cabinet wasn't an attempt to hurt me or terrify your father, we simply didn't factor into your plans, right?

I get it, but here's the thing - you factor into each and every one of my plans.

Each and every one, Rebecca.

My plan to see you grow into a strong, confident young woman who knows her own mind and realises her worth.

My plan to watch you blossom as you navigate adolescence, bloom as you enter adulthood and thrive as you start a family of your own.

My plan to have you in my life for all my life.

When I tell you not to do or say something, it's because those very plans are what you will also want in time.

You just don't realise it yet.