It was a Thursday afternoon, 2:30 p.m., when I found myself parked in front of my daughter’s house, heart pounding with a mixture of anxiety and determination.

For months, I had been carrying a gnawing, persistent unease—a mother’s instinct whispering that something was wrong.

My daughter Laura, 29, had always been fiercely independent, but the tone of her recent calls, the way she avoided questions, and the subtle tremors in her voice had set off alarms in my mind. Today, I could no longer ignore them.