“Nearly a year had passed since her disappearance from the psych ward in Baltimore. There was no word for a year—nothing. I assumed she was dead; I was sure of it. My daughter, once upon a time, was the most faithful and loyal child any parent could wish for. And even though this memoir has shown numerous instances of the drug-induced change in her personality, I still believed, needed to believe, that my daughter would never torture her family without any word for a year, not unless she couldn’t contact us. She would never be that cruel. Therefore, she must be dead. This is when I wrote her eulogy. I was just waiting for the end to come. The only thing missing was the body.
Ah yes, the body, that tool, that means, to fund her habit. How could I forget what had happened not that long ago? I was wrong. I was wrong and still unbelievably naïve about the power and the cruelty of drug addiction. There was a living, breathing body living just outside of Baltimore. Only now she called herself Anna.”