When I spotted my daughter in the mall food court, quietly counting loose coins, my heart sank. I asked, “Where’s the car we bought you?” She said her husband and mother-in-law had taken her car and money and were threatening to take her daughter. I smiled and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll handle this.” The next move was mine.

It began with the shoes.

They were cheap canvas sneakers, gray with grime, the rubber soles peeling away from the fabric at the toe. I stared at them, trying to reconcile the image with the memory of the Italian leather boots I had bought my daughter for her thirtieth birthday. My gaze traveled up the frayed hem of the black trousers, past the faded green apron of the Grocery Outlet, to the nametag that hung crookedly from a safety pin.

Sophia.

She was sitting alone at a laminate table in the food court of the Westfield Mall, counting out nickels and dimes to pay for a small black coffee.

I almost walked past her. My daughter, who drove the pearl-white Highlander I’d helped her negotiate two years ago. My daughter, the registered nurse who used to send me selfies from brunch with her polished, handsome husband.