My family left me behind during a summer trip as a vicious joke, laughing while they drove off and said, “Let’s see if she can handle it.” I never went back, and fifteen years later, when they finally tracked me down, the person I had become left them utterly stunned.

The final memory I had of my family was their laughter drifting farther and farther away down a dusty road in northern Arizona.

I was seventeen, my skin burned from the sun, my throat dry, standing beside a cracked wooden sign that said: Mile 42 Desert View Trail. My stepfather, Richard Hale, had pulled the rental SUV onto the shoulder after I complained that my younger half brother, Mason, had dumped soda inside my backpack. My mother, Linda, let out a weary sigh as though I was the one causing trouble. My older cousin, Brooke, recorded the whole thing on her camcorder.

“Go cool off,” Richard said, throwing my backpack into the dirt.

I assumed he meant for a few minutes.

My family abandoned me on a summer trip as a cruel joke, laughing as they drove away and said, “Let’s see if she can handle it.” I never returned, and fifteen years later, when they finally found me,

My family left me behind during a summer trip as a vicious joke, laughing while they drove off and said, “Let’s see if she can handle it.” I never went back, and fifteen years later, when they finally tracked me down, the person I had become left them utterly stunned.

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