It was my first night alone in decades. All four of my children — yes, four; we learned about birth control later — were either grown or sleeping over at each other's places. The house was enormous and silent, and every creak and groan of it was convincing me it was either haunted or on fire. So at 2 AM, I was wide awake in my pajamas when the phone rang.
Do you have a daughter named Alexandra?
I did. Apparently, the jail did too.
When the two officers arrived at my door, they had a young lady with them — head down, brown hair, brown eyes — who they said was my Ali. And then she looked up at me from behind those two uniformed gentlemen, and she was mouthing one word at me, over and over.
Please.
This was not my daughter. This was Toni Brady, Ali's best friend since first grade. I'd known this child since she was six years old.
I had about three seconds to decide.
This isn't my daughter, I told the officers. This is her friend.
The handcuffs were still behind Toni's back when she rushed at me and buried her face in my chest — she was only thirteen and barely came up to my chin — sobbing mommy, mommy, why are you doing this to me?
The officers looked at me like I was the one who should be arrested.
Luckily, right behind me in the hallway hung recent photographs of all four of my children. I pulled Ali's picture off the wall and handed it over. The two officers went back and forth — photo, Toni, photo, Toni — because honestly, the girls could have been sisters. Same brown eyes, same complexion, same hair. Finally they looked up and said, You're right. She's not your daughter.
So I grabbed my purse, tried to look decent over my pajamas, and followed the police car to the station.
They called Toni's father. He eventually showed up — it was the middle of the night, so I gave him that much. And when the officers asked if I'd mind staying with her until he arrived, I said of course. Which is how I ended up spending the bulk of my very first night alone, in a jail cell, on an inch-and-a-half mattress, comforting a thirteen-year-old girl next to a very conveniently located toilet.
The father showed up, collected his daughter with all the enthusiasm of a man retrieving a lost umbrella, and that was that. No flowers. No phone call. No thank you for spending the night in jail for my child. Just a shrug and out the door.
No wonder she ended up there in the first place.
Every word of this is true.