Day 3
My little Magdalene has been missing for three days. Every second that ticks by, it becomes less and less likely that we’ll ever get her back.
My friend Henrique, a retired journalist who runs our little newspaper here, suggested I start a journal. He knows I’m losing my mind and thinks writing down some of my thoughts and feelings will be therapeutic. Maybe it will be. He says writing about things has always helped him, though I doubt he’s ever had to write about anything like this.
I still can’t believe my little Magdalene is gone. I keep expecting to wake up and realize that she’s here and that the whole thing was a nightmare. Or I think one of the searchers will walk in with her at any moment and tell us everything’s okay, that she had just gotten lost. But I know neither one of those scenarios is possible. She didn’t just wander off somehow. She couldn’t even get out of our house on her own. And a three-year-old can’t survive on her own for three days. I know this is all real. All too real.
I keep thinking about that perfect day we had just a few weeks ago—just me, Keith, and Magdalene on an empty beach in the late afternoon. Seems like a dream now, like something that I observed instead of experienced. But it’s so vivid, so detailed in every way. I can still feel the sun on my face, hear the wind in my ears—the wind and Magdalene’s squeals and shrieks and laughter. I can see her sun-kissed hair waving in the breeze and that contented, happy look on her sweet little face.
What was the last thing I said to her? I can’t remember now. What must she be thinking? Going through? How must she feel? Terrified. Confused. Is she wondering why we don’t come get her? Does she think we abandoned her? Does she know how loved she is? Is she even still alive to be able to have such thoughts and feelings?
I don’t know many of the details about how difficult her life was before she went into foster care, but whatever situation she’s in now has to be far worse than anything she’s ever experienced before. It doubly breaks my heart and makes me want to kill myself when I think of some of the darker possibilities of what might be happening to her.
I just want to hold her. I just want to hug her. I just want to read her a story. I just want to tell her how much I love her again and again and again and again and again and again and again. I just want her with me. I never want her to leave my side again, not for the rest of her life.
I’ve read enough true crime and watched enough crime shows to know that every hour that passes means it’s less likely that we will ever find her. For three days to have already passed fills me with such hopelessness I’m finding it hard to function.
I can’t understand why the whole world won’t just stop and help us find her. How can people go on with their lives like everything is okay?
Someone just reminded me it’s Christmas. Would’ve been our first Christmas together, but instead all my little girl’s gifts are unopened under the tree.