Just like that, thirteen years reduced to sixteen words. I called my mother’s cell phone repeatedly, each unanswered ring making my chest tighter. I tried my father’s number, but it had already been disconnected. I searched for address books, emergency contacts, anything that might help me understand what was happening.

I had met Aunt Vivien only twice before. She was my father’s older sister, a stern businesswoman who lived in a different state. She never married, never had children, and according to my parents, never approved of their lifestyle.

I had no way to contact her, and no idea if she even knew what my parents had done. I spent that night alone, afraid to tell anyone what had happened. What if they put me in foster care? What if my parents came back and I was gone? I survived on cereal and cried myself to sleep on the living room couch waiting by the phone.

On the second day, our landlord knocked, demanding the overdue rent. When I told him my parents were away, he eyed me suspiciously and mentioned something about calling social services. On the third day, I finally called my school counselor, who immediately involved child protective services.

The social worker who came, Miss Dawson, had kind eyes and a voice that reminded me of warm blankets. She made calls, pulled strings, and somehow located Aunt Vivien. “Your niece has been abandoned,” I heard Miss Dawson say into the phone. “The alternatives are foster care or…” There was a long pause. “I understand it is sudden, but she has no one else. Tomorrow morning would be best. She cannot stay in the apartment alone another night.”