A stranger at the grocery store grabbed me and yelled, “Those are my kidnapped kids you’re raising!”
I’d been allowed to be there for this initial meeting to help them feel safe. Elizabeth came in a few minutes later with the psychologist.
She was wearing a yellow dress and holding a bag of toys. Her hands were shaking as she stood near the doorway, watching her daughters play with blocks ten feet away.
“Hi, Mia,” she said softly.
“Hi, Olivia. Do you remember me?”
Both girls looked up, confused. Mia moved closer to me and whispered, “Who is that lady?”
The psychologist knelt down with them.
“This is Elizabeth,” she said gently.
“She’s someone very special who wants to get to know you.”
Elizabeth’s face was wet with tears, but she was trying to smile. She sat down on the floor slowly and pulled a stuffed dolphin from her bag.
“I brought you something,” she said to Olivia.
“You used to love dolphins. We went to the aquarium, and you talked about them for weeks.”
Olivia stared at the dolphin but didn’t move. Mia whispered to me, “Daddy, I’m scared.”
I wanted to pick them both up and run. Instead, I said, “It’s okay to feel scared, but this lady is nice. She just wants to play with you.”
The psychologist had explained this morning that I needed to encourage their interaction with Elizabeth, no matter how much it hurt. For the next 30 minutes, Elizabeth tried to engage with the girls while they mostly ignored her.
She showed them photos on her phone of them as babies, but they didn’t recognize themselves. She brought out toys she said were their favorites from before, but Mia and Olivia had no memory of them.
When the session ended, Elizabeth was barely holding herself together.
“They don’t know me,” she said to the psychologist as we were leaving.
“My own daughters don’t know who I am.”
I felt torn between sympathy for her pain and desperate fear about losing the girls. The psychologist said this was normal.
Children under five rarely retained detailed memories from earlier years. Their brains had essentially reset during the three years with Vanessa and me.
Elizabeth’s daughters had become Mia and Olivia, with no memory of being anyone else. Over the next week, we had supervised visits every day.
Gradually, the girls started warming to Elizabeth. She brought activities they enjoyed.
She learned what made them laugh. She was patient when they called me daddy and asked when they could go home.
On the fifth visit, Olivia let Elizabeth hold her hand while they looked at fish in the facility’s aquarium. Elizabeth started crying again, and Olivia patted her arm, saying, “It’s okay, lady. Don’t be sad.”
The psychologist said this was significant progress. Meanwhile, the police still hadn’t found Vanessa.
She’d gone completely off the grid, likely using the fake identity documents I’d found. Detective Nuan said they were monitoring her family and known associates, but so far, nothing.
Vanessa had effectively disappeared. My life was falling apart in other ways, too.
The story had hit local news, and reporters camped outside my house wanting interviews. My boss at the accounting firm put me on administrative leave until the situation was resolved.
My brother called every day, but I couldn’t bring myself to answer because what was I supposed to say? Neighbors who used to wave now avoided eye contact.
Someone spray-painted “child stealer” on my garage door. I was being treated as a criminal, even though I’d been cleared of any knowing participation.
On the eighth day of supervised visits, the psychologist said Elizabeth was ready to take the girls for an overnight stay.
“Already?” I asked, panic rising in my chest.
“They barely know her.”
The psychologist gave me a sympathetic look.
“The longer we wait, the harder the transition will be. Elizabeth has completed all the required checks, and she set up a bedroom for them. We’ll do the overnight with a social worker present and see how it goes.”
I got one final visit before they left. Mia and Olivia were wearing new clothes Elizabeth had bought, and they seemed confused about what was happening.
“Where are we going?” Mia asked.
“You’re going to have a sleepover at Elizabeth’s house,” I said, my voice breaking.
“It’ll be fun. She has lots of toys.”
Olivia’s face crumpled.
“But I want to sleep at home in my room.”
I looked at the psychologist, silently begging her to stop this. But she just nodded encouragement for me to continue.
“I know, sweetheart,” I said, pulling Olivia into a hug.
“But right now, you need to stay with Elizabeth for a little while. I promise you’re safe.”
Mia started crying.
“I don’t want to go. I want you to come.”
The social worker gently took their hands and started walking them toward the door where Elizabeth waited. Both girls were crying and reaching back for me.
“Daddy! Daddy, please!” Mia screamed.
I stood there frozen as they were taken away, my own tears making everything blurry. The door closed, and I could still hear them crying from the hallway.
That night was the worst of my life. I sat in their empty bedroom surrounded by their toys and clothes and all the evidence of the childhood I’d helped create.
A childhood built on lies and crime, but real nonetheless. My phone rang at 2:00 a.m.
It was the social worker who’d stayed with Elizabeth during the overnight.
“The girls are having a very difficult time,” she said carefully.
“They’re both hysterical and asking for you repeatedly. Elizabeth is doing her best, but they won’t calm down.”
I could hear screaming in the background—Mia’s voice calling daddy over and over.
“Can I talk to them?” I asked desperately.
“I’m not sure that’s helpful,” the social worker said.
“It might make the separation harder.”
But the screaming got louder, and I heard Elizabeth in the background saying something I couldn’t make out. Then the social worker came back on.
“Okay, briefly, but you need to encourage them to stay with Elizabeth.”
Mia came on the phone, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.
“Daddy, come get us! I don’t like it here! I want to go home!”
My heart was being ripped from my chest.
