For twelve agonizing years, I was the envy of my neighborhood. Every single year, without fail, eight thousand dollars appeared in my bank account from South Korea, a mysterious annual lifeline sent by my daughter, Mary Lou. My friends called me the luckiest mother alive, praising me for raising a daughter so devoted, so saintly, and so successful. I held onto those bank transfers like talismans, desperate to believe they were proof of her happiness in a faraway land. But bank statements are cold, lifeless things; they cannot tell you if your child is truly loved, or if she is drowning in a nightmare she is too proud to admit.
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