Where Was My Daughter?
A school bus doesnt just appear out of nowhere.
BY: Dianne Finnegan Wilson
from 
The noontime sun glinted off the snow along the highway as I neared Glendale Heights, Ill. Two bag lunches sat beside me on the car seat: one for me and one for my daughter, Catherine. Budget cuts in the fall had eliminated the school bus between Catherine’s half-day kindergarten and her daycare center in Wheaton. The bus still ran before and after school, but for the last three months it had been up to me to make the midday trip with Catherine on my lunch break. I loved the chance to check in with her halfway through the day. As wonderful as her teachers were, I just felt better when I was looking after Catherine myself. As a single mother I had to get used to sharing responsibility for her. I was trying.
Each day my redheaded Catherine ran out of the school and greeted me with a giant hug. I’d kiss her face, using her freckles for target practice. Then we’d drive down the highway, eating lunch as Catherine told me about her morning. The hard part came when I had to let her go again at daycare. “Lord,” I prayed every time I watched her disappear through those doors and into another’s care, “please protect and care for her as only you can.”
The sidewalk was empty when I arrived at the school. They must be running late, I thought, but after several minutes I went to check with the school office. The secretary told me the kindergarten had been dismissed already. “But Catherine isn’t waiting in her usual spot by the door,” I said, trying not to panic. As I described my daughter to the secretary, a look of fear came into her eyes.
“A redheaded girl was waiting by the doorway, and I mistook her for another student who lives nearby,” she said. “I told her to go on and start walking! I’m so sorry!”
She went to get the principal, who immediately called the police. “We’ll find her,” he assured me. I ran back to my car. Which way would Catherine have headed? I had no idea. For over an hour I drove slowly down snowy streets, calling her name out my open window. Impatient drivers honked their horns, but I ignored them. I had to find my daughter. It was my job to take care of her. My job and no one else’s.
I stuck my head out the window once more. “Catherine!” I shouted, gulping a rush of icy wind. There was no sign of her. I turned back toward the school. “God,” I prayed aloud, “please let her be all right!”
Catherine still hadn’t been found. I called the daycare center from the school office. “They must be wondering where she is too.”
When I heard the calm voice of the daycare center’s director on the other end of the line I burst into tears. How I wished this were a normal day, when I was dropping Catherine off, leaving her in their care. I choked out my name and explained that Catherine wouldn’t be coming to daycare today.
“But she’s already here,” the director said. I tore out of the school, calling, “She’s fine,” over my shoulder, and sped to the daycare center. There was Catherine, safe and sound, waiting for me in the administration office. “Thank you, God! Thank you!” I cried, throwing my arms around my daughter and breathing in the familiar scent of her baby shampoo until she finally managed to wriggle free. “Catherine, how did you ever get here?”
The noontime sun glinted off the snow along the highway as I neared Glendale Heights, Ill. Two bag lunches sat beside me on the car seat: one for me and one for my daughter, Catherine. Budget cuts in the fall had eliminated the school bus between Catherine’s half-day kindergarten and her daycare center in Wheaton. The bus still ran before and after school, but for the last three months it had been up to me to make the midday trip with Catherine on my lunch break. I loved the chance to check in with her halfway through the day. As wonderful as her teachers were, I just felt better when I was looking after Catherine myself. As a single mother I had to get used to sharing responsibility for her. I was trying.
Each day my redheaded Catherine ran out of the school and greeted me with a giant hug. I’d kiss her face, using her freckles for target practice. Then we’d drive down the highway, eating lunch as Catherine told me about her morning. The hard part came when I had to let her go again at daycare. “Lord,” I prayed every time I watched her disappear through those doors and into another’s care, “please protect and care for her as only you can.”
The sidewalk was empty when I arrived at the school. They must be running late, I thought, but after several minutes I went to check with the school office. The secretary told me the kindergarten had been dismissed already. “But Catherine isn’t waiting in her usual spot by the door,” I said, trying not to panic. As I described my daughter to the secretary, a look of fear came into her eyes.
“A redheaded girl was waiting by the doorway, and I mistook her for another student who lives nearby,” she said. “I told her to go on and start walking! I’m so sorry!”
She went to get the principal, who immediately called the police. “We’ll find her,” he assured me. I ran back to my car. Which way would Catherine have headed? I had no idea. For over an hour I drove slowly down snowy streets, calling her name out my open window. Impatient drivers honked their horns, but I ignored them. I had to find my daughter. It was my job to take care of her. My job and no one else’s.
I stuck my head out the window once more. “Catherine!” I shouted, gulping a rush of icy wind. There was no sign of her. I turned back toward the school. “God,” I prayed aloud, “please let her be all right!”
Catherine still hadn’t been found. I called the daycare center from the school office. “They must be wondering where she is too.”
When I heard the calm voice of the daycare center’s director on the other end of the line I burst into tears. How I wished this were a normal day, when I was dropping Catherine off, leaving her in their care. I choked out my name and explained that Catherine wouldn’t be coming to daycare today.
“But she’s already here,” the director said. I tore out of the school, calling, “She’s fine,” over my shoulder, and sped to the daycare center. There was Catherine, safe and sound, waiting for me in the administration office. “Thank you, God! Thank you!” I cried, throwing my arms around my daughter and breathing in the familiar scent of her baby shampoo until she finally managed to wriggle free. “Catherine, how did you ever get here?”
Continued on page 2: 'Catherine, tell me everything that happened....' »
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