Since she hadn't done that, Angela could only imagine the absolute worst.

Lauren believed Emily was dead. From the way she'd acted when Emily was sick, Angela was terrified that Lauren blamed Bill and her for the baby's death. She probably blamed herself, also. And God. With no baby to bid good-bye, and no desire to talk to her parents, she would've been five hundred miles out of town by midnight.

Grief and guilt settled like a cement blanket on her shoulders. Now that she'd allowed herself to admit that scenario, now that she could give herself permission to believe that was why Lauren had left, it made horrible, perfect sense.

When Bill returned a few hours later, she told him her theory so he could share it with the private investigator. The possibility was enough to make her heart race whenever she thought of it. Because nothing was sadder than the thought of Lauren living on her own, believing her daughter was dead, when in reality she was growing up a little more every day. They would spare no expense; stop at nothing to find Lauren. And one day they would get the call or the clue they were looking for, the information that would bring Lauren and Emily back together again. Angela believed that with all her heart.

Even if they had to spend a life time searching.

TWELVE.

Eighteen years later Wheaton College was everything Emily Anderson hoped it would be.

The only downside was that it kept her in Illinois, when everything in her wanted to be in Los Angeles. There, or anywhere on the coast of Southern California. Especially this time of year. It was Friday afternoon, and Christmas break was looming.

She stretched her elbow out along her desk and rested her face in her hand. Her feature story on the women's soccer coach was due at five o'clock, but she couldn't focus. Three other journalism students were hanging out at the newspaper office that afternoon, but they were working on a project, so they didn't pay her any attention. The outline for her feature was spread out on the desk in front of her. She glanced at it and tried to be interested. Footsteps sounded from behind, and her professor pulled up a chair beside her.

"Hi, Emily." Ms. Parker was young and likeable. Emily hadn't ever heard anyone say anything bad about her. "How's the story coming?"

She sat up and gave her teacher a weak smile. "Not so good." She looked at the clock. "I still have a few hours."

Ms. Parker found the outline on the desk. "You have your points down."

"Yes." Her heart wasn't into it; that was the problem. She met Ms. Parker's eyes. "Did you always love writing?"

"Not always." She laughed. "Most of my students are the other way around, though. For me, when I was in high school I thought I wanted to be a math teacher. It wasn't until college that I knew I wanted to write."

"Hmm." Emily looked at her notes, not really seeing them. Her eyes lifted to the teacher's again. "Did your mom like to write?"

Ms. Parker angled her head. "Yeah, I guess she did. I never really made the connection." She folded her arms and leaned them on the desk. "She kept a journal and wrote poetry, that sort of thing. Maybe that's where I get it."

Emily nodded. "May be."

"Did your mother like writing?" The question was an innocent one. Ms. Parker didn't know Emily well enough to understand the territory she was treading.

Emily forced a smile. "I've never met my mother." She made sure she sounded upbeat. She hated people feeling sorry for her. "My grandma told me she spent time in her room, maybe writing, maybe reading. She isn't sure."

"Oh." Ms. Parker was quiet for a moment. "Well, I bet she was a writer."

"Yeah, maybe."

The instructor tapped lightly on the notes. "You're one of the best soccer players this school has ever had, Emily. A feature on the coach should be easy for you."

"I know." She drew in a long breath and grinned at the woman. The message was clear. Whatever was distracting her, the story had to be written. "I'll get on it."

"Okay." Her smile was compassionate. "May be you and your grandma can talk about your mom later tonight." She raised an eyebrow. "When the story's written and put to bed."

Emily made a silly face and nodded, then she took her notes to the computer and in half an hour she had the story finished. Ms. Parker was right. The soccer coach was a burly Nigerian man named Wolf, and if anyone understood him, she did. The man was demanding, but he'd improved her game by miles. If she were more committed, she could make a run at the national team. But competing in college was enough, because she wanted to spend at least some of her time thinking about her future. A future writing for a newspaper in Los Angeles. That's all she'd ever wanted. Talent or no, soccer wasn't her passion. Writing held that spot. It always had.

Writing and her faith in Christ.

From the time she was a little girl her grandma had told her simply, "Your mother and father loved you very much, but they weren't ready to be parents."

The answer sounded sad and empty, but Grandma followed it up with this explanation. "God will always be your daddy, Emily. He'll be there for you wherever you are, wherever you go. He'll never leave you."

Her words proved true year after year, and now Emily considered God more than her father. She considered Him her best friend. He was her life giver, her soul maker, her redeemer. He brought her the greatest gifts - joy and love and forgiveness when she messed up. And He brought her peace. But He couldn't quite fill the emptiness in her heart, in the hidden places where she wondered every day why. Why did her mom and dad leave? Why didn't they ever come back for her? She'd met kids without parents and often they were rebellious or angry or distant. Not her. She had a wonderful life. Grandparents who loved her, a beautiful home, and a bright future.

But the emptiness was always there.

Sometimes it made her step back and wonder. Especially when the sky was full of snow clouds and California felt a world away and her heart simply wouldn't leave the past alone. What were her parents like? What sort of people had they become? She focused her attention on the computer screen once more and repositioned her hands over the keyboard. The feature was easy, once she gave it some thought. Wolf had escaped captivity from an underground political group in Nigeria and made it to the United States with just the clothes on his back. He earned a soccer tryout at UCLA and two years later he was on the men's national team. Wheaton College was lucky to have him, and she had quotes from the school's athletic director saying as much.

When she finished the story, she sent it to the editor's desk and stretched her feet out. She was going to spend Christmas break at her grand parents' house, but they weren't expecting her until five-thirty. For now she could surf the Internet, look for something to take her mind off the conversation she'd had with Ms. Parker.

And off her mother.

One headline proclaimed an outbreak of violence had flared up in Iraq. Four U.S. soldiers had been killed when their car hit a roadside bomb, and more troops were being sent over. She scanned the details and tried to imagine life in a war-torn country, a place where bombs and death and violence were commonplace. God is a God of peace, so she didn't understand war or whether the United States should be involved. But she knew this: lots of her friends were fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq, and she supported them with everything she was. Still it was easier not to think about it, not to sort through the whys and how comes. I don't really understand it, God.

She typed another Web address into the search line, and in a matter of seconds she was looking at the soccer team's standings. Wheaton was at the top. Unless someone got injured or one of the other teams had an unexplainable surge, Emily was pretty sure her team would stay in first. Wolf had done a great job recruiting over the past few years. For the most part the team was older. Emily was the only freshman.

The room was quieter than before. Two of the three students had gone home, and the other was working at one of the computer stations. She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Then she typed in writing and genetic. After a brief pause, the computer screen showed a list that was thousands of websites long. The first one asked this question: "How much of who we are is a result of our parents?" She clicked it, and an article appeared.

"Some things are explainable by science, but some things simply can't be figured out. One such phenomenon that defies scientific understanding is the truth that talent and interests are often passed on from one generation to another. For instance, a person with a talent for writing might well have a child with a similar talent . . . "

The article was dry, poorly written, and made up of unbroken small print. She closed it down and stared at the welcome screen. She needed to get going. Her grandma hated when she drove home in the snow, and a storm was forecast for that night. She was about to push her chair back, but she couldn't resist. Her hands found the keyboard again. Every few days she checked, the way she had always done. Because mothers didn't just disappear, did they? Her grandmother had told her the story, at least the basics of it. Emily was sick in the hospital and her mother was given bad information - information that might've convinced her Emily was dead. Probably frightened and confused, maybe devastated over the loss of her little girl, her mother had most likely left for California to find Emily's father. Whatever had driven her, she'd left without saying good-bye. To anyone.

In a familiar rush of letters, she typed, L-a-u-r-e-n A-n-d-e-r-s-o-n, and hit the search button. Another list of websites appeared, but a quick scan of the first page told her there was nothing new. The number of sites was the same as last time. Every one of them was a site she'd already checked.

Next she tried her dad's name: S-h-a-n-e G-a-l-e-n-t-e-r. But the same thing was true; nothing had been added on the Web under his name, either.

"What are you looking for?" Ms. Parker came up behind her.

Emily shut down the list and closed out of the Internet. She turned wide eyes to her teacher. "Something for another feature. I want to do a comparison of culture and expenses between college life in Chicago and Los Angeles."

She gave a nod of her head. "Sounds interesting. You might need more of a local angle, a stronger hook." She looked at her watch. "But for tonight, how about getting home. Snow's coming soon. I want to lock up."

Emily was out of the chair and gathering her things before Ms. Parker walked away. She didn't grab a full breath until she was outside in the car. Why did it matter so much that she found her mom and dad? They had moved on with their lives, and apparently never looked back. She would follow their lead.

Still . . .

Where had this deep longing come from, to leave the Midwest and live in Southern California? She knew the answer, of course. Knew the region held more draw than sunshine and strong newspapers. It was the place her grandparents always talked about, the place where they thought her mom and dad lived.

Snow began falling, and the clouds overhead grew dark and threatening. Emily didn't mind. She was only twenty minutes from home. A storm didn't frighten her. Funny, how peace was so much a part of how she was raised. Her grandparents explained early on that life wouldn't always go the way she wanted it to. But still she could have peace if she understood that God was in control, that He was there for her no matter what was happening around her.

That's why it was strange when - once in awhile - she would come home and find her grandparents huddled together at the dining room table, deep in conversation. At times like that, they looked anything but peaceful. It happened again just a week ago, when she came home. As she walked through the door, her grandparents stopped whatever conversation they were having. She still remembered the strange way they'd acted that day.

"Emily." Her grandma stood up, came to her, and hugged her. "We weren't expecting you until later."

"Journalism let out early." She drew back and set her purse and books on the kitchen table. "Did I interrupt anything?"

"No." Her grandpa was a successful businessman; even now when he was pushing sixty years old, he was a sharp dresser, a man known throughout Wheaton for his power and influence. But wither he'd always had a soft side. He held out his hand to her and she went to him, taking hold of it.

She bent down and kissed him on the cheek. "It's quiet in here." She gave him a hesitant smile. "You sure you weren't talking about something private?"

For the quickest instant, her grand parents looked at each other, as if to question whether they should go into detail about whatever they'd been discussing. But her grandfather only cleared his throat and gave the dining room table a light slap with his open palm. "Dinner. That's what we're talking about. What we can fix for our young college student, home for the weekend."

Their explanations didn't fool her. They never did. She could only guess that they were talking about the one thing they never brought up in her presence: the search for their daughter, Emily's mother. Emily knew they were still looking for her. Every now and then Emily would bring in the mail and see a bill from a private investigator, or a return letter from a congress man's office in California. But their only conversation about Emily's mother was centered on the happier times, the days when she was growing up.

"Your mother colored just like that, with eighteen shades of green in a single tree," her grandma told her when she was little. And as she grew older, "Your mother had a bicycle like that one, shiny red with streamers flying from the handlebars."

From everything she could determine, her grandparents had been on close terms with their daughter. That's why it didn't make sense that her mother would leave in the weeks after she was born. There were so many missing pieces, there always had been. Through the years she had asked her grandparents whenever she felt driven to understand the past better.

Of course, sometimes she dealt with the loneliness all by herself. Too many nights to count she would smile at her grandparents as they kissed her good night and prayed with her. But when they left her room, she would roll onto her side and stare at the open door, wishing just once that her mom would walk through it. She had a picture in her mind of what her mother would look like, the way her eyes would light up when she saw Emily, the tender smile she'd have. Sometimes her imagination would be so vivid she'd actually imagine her mother walking through the door, taking a seat on the edge of her bed, and smoothing her hair.

"I love you, Emily. I always have," she'd say.

But when her imagination let up even for an instant, the image disappeared.

There were other times - times at the park with her grandparents, when she saw a young couple with their children, and for a moment she'd pretend the couple was her parents. She'd think what it would belike to run up to them and take their hands and hug them.

"Emily," her father might say. "We've been looking all our lives for you. Now you're finally where you belong."

The older she got, the less she pretended that way, but still she kept a picture in her mind, the way her parents might look now. Sometimes she encountered something that it seemed only a mom or a dad could help her with. On those days she'd wait until it was time for bed, then hold quiet, one-sided conversations with them. Usually her hushed whispers turned into prayers, requests spoken to God, begging Him to bring them back, to reconnect them somehow.

"I know my mom was young," Emily once told her grandparents when she was seventeen. "But why didn't she check to see if I was alive? She wanted to find my dad, right?"

"Right." Her grandmother was folding laundry. She set a towel down on the sofa beside her and looked up at Emily. "But honey, don't think she had any doubts. I really think she thought you were dead."

"Yeah." Emily folded her arms across her middle, warding off the hurt inside. "But wouldn't she have stayed just in case? In case I was still alive?"

"I don't know." Her grandma sounded sad and tired. "She was desperate to find your father. She wanted to find him more than she wanted anything."

"Anything?" The answer stabbed through her soul. "Even me?"

Her grandmother reached out and took careful hold of her hand. "Not you, sweetheart. She wanted you. That's why I'm sure she must've had incorrect information about you."

Emily thought for a minute. "Well . . . maybe we should go to California and find her."

"We've tried." Grandma smiled, but her eyes stayed flat. "Believe me, Emily, we've done everything we know to do. The only way we're going to find your mother again is if God gives us a miracle."

Now Emily stared at the road ahead of her. The snow was heavier than before. Two miles and she'd be home, ready to sleep in her own bed and cuddle up with her grandparents for a couple of movie nights. She didn't have a boyfriend, and most of her friends were spending Christmas break with their families. Emily was glad for the time that lay ahead. With soccer practice every day, her first semester of college was tougher than she'd expected, and she and her grandparents hadn't had much time together.

She took the exit leading to her house and thought again about what her grandmother had said two years ago. It would take a miracle. Fine. She gripped the steering wheel. If it took a miracle, then that's what she'd keep praying for. Because more often lately she couldn't get through a day without thinking of her mom and dad and what had happened to them. Had her mother found him? If so, did they marry and start a new family? Was it possible she had brothers or sisters out west? And if her mom and dad hadn't found each other, were they happy?

And then there was the hardest truth of all. The truth that threatened to tear at the center of everything peaceful about her life and faith and future. The truth that always brought the sting of tears to her eyes. If her grandma was right then there was no point wondering about when she might come back or what type of life she was living.

If her mother thought she was dead, then by now the truth was painfully clear.

She wasn't coming back. Not ever.

THIRTEEN.

Angela had been looking forward to this day since the semester started. She'd decorated the house and opened the seasonal storage boxes so the ornaments were ready to go on the tree. The red felt Advent calendar hung on the wall, all the numbered hand-sewn ornaments ready to be placed on it - even those that should've been up by now.

This would be a very special Christmas. Special and sad, for reasons they didn't want to tell Emily. Not just yet. The news would mar the season, and Angela didn't want that. She wanted one last Christmas celebrated the special way they'd celebrated it every year since Emily was a little girl. Bill had his favorite Mitch Miller CD in the player and a kettle of hot cinnamon apple cider was simmering on the stove. Time enough for sad announcements and changes later.

For now, all they needed was Emily.

She heard the front door open and the cheerful voice of her granddaughter rang through the house. Her delightful, precious granddaughter. "Hi! I'm home."

"Emily!" She gave the garland a last nudge and hurried toward the front door. When she rounded the corner, her granddaughter flew into her arms before she could take another step.

"It's so good to be home!" She circled her arms around Angela and kissed her cheek. "I finished my finals." She pulled back and grinned. "I even finished my feature on the soccer coach."

Angela looped her arm through Emily's and led her into the kitchen. "How do you think you did?"

"Good." She raised her brow a bit. "I guess the first semester is always hard, but I think my grades'll be up there. A's and B's for the most part." She winced. "Maybe a C in biology and Algebra II."

"That's okay." She smiled. "With your sports and your work at the school paper, I think a few C's are to be expected. First semester of high school was hard too, remember?"

"Do I." She gave her a dizzying look as she took a seat on one of the bar stools and leaned her elbows on the counter. "In ninth grade I wasn't sure if I'd make it to graduation."

"Your gold tassel took a few of your teachers by surprise." Angela chuckled as she reached into the cupboard and pulled out three mugs. "But not us, honey. We knew you could doit."

She looked around. "Where's Papa?"

"Upstairs." Angela was careful to keep her expression steady. "He's been a little tired lately. He thought he'd get a short nap before dinner." She handed Emily a mug of steaming cider. "Here. Be careful, it's hot."

"Thanks." She held it in both hands and breathed it in. "This is so great." Her eyes took in the adjacent family room, where Angela had most of the decorations up. "All I did was walk through the door and already it feels like Christmas." She took a small sip of her cider. "Is Papa okay?"

"He'll feel better later. That reminds me!" Angela could feel her eyes light up. "He's taken the next two weeks off. He's never done that around the holidays."

"Two weeks?" Emily set her cup down. "That's great!"