Hi, Mom, it’s Becca."

My heart beat against my chest like drum sticks on a snare drum--I took a deep breath, summoned my courage and asked, "Where are you?"

"I’m calling from a phone booth in a shopping center, Rohnert Park. I think—but it could be Santa Rosa--I’m not sure which town is which."

Listening to the wind and rain pummel my windows, I worried aloud "Is it pouring where you are? I pictured my daughter--wet sneakers, rain soaked denims, a thin nylon hood affording scant warmth--coughing and sniffling back thick, green snot.

"It was until a few minutes ago" she replied. Her tone and manner seemed, completely relaxed—casual. She asked, "What are you up to?"

"I’ve been staying close to home. I wanted to be here in case you called." Ceasing a chance to protect her, I asked, "Will you let me come get you? I just have to throw some clothes on. I could be there in an hour and a half.

Her voice sounded concerned, "Were you already in bed, Mom?"

"I’ve been too worried to sleep" I replied, "I went to bed early tonight, hoping to catch up."

During those pregnant seconds, waiting for her to agree to be picked up, my horror at her vulnerability was all consuming—she was isolated and alone in a small suburban town where no one even knew she existed. It was starkly real to me that, like a cobra ready to strike, a predator would—at any second--kidnap, rape, or kill my daughter. And no one would hear her screams or, come to her aide.

Finally, Becca answered my question. "I don’t want to come home, Mom. But I can’t stay where I’ve been staying any longer. And I’m out of money."

Wedging myself into the small opening she’d left me, I replied, "Becca, the only thing I care about, is keeping you safe. Whatever has happened, whatever will happen, we’ll work it out.

The thick silence between us lasted so long I was afraid that she’d left the phone dangling, and split. Finally, she spoke, "Only if you come, not Dad."

Minutes later, I was on my way. Chiding myself mercilessly for once again leaving the tank close to empty, I stopped for gas. The gas station clock said 11:30. I could reach Rohnert Park by 1:00 a.m.

Driving those rain soaked streets, the windshield wipers synchronized like a metronome to the classical music I was listening to. As the downpour turned to a light trickle I relived my day. I’d spent five consecutive hours completing Cascade School’s twenty-page application and submitting reports from Becca’s teachers, doctors and therapists. I’d answered countless questions about her early childhood, her school years, and our family dynamics. Would any question or answer alter the course of events our family had been enduring?

Though no stranger to the "concept" of sending my daughter to a therapeutic boarding school, I’d been long avoiding that onerous decision. Now, no amount of denial, rationalizing or cutting off of my emotions could shield me from facing squarely, Becca’s self-destructiveness.

The night before she ran away, Becca was arrested for shoplifting. We grounded her. She was cooperative, accepted our sanctions graciously, and then marched to her own drummer twelve hours later by running away.

She’d run away previously, but during each prior episode she either called, left a note, or we tracked her down. Not this time. And her friends’ dramatic reports of "Becca sightings" in dangerous neighborhoods left us in a state of constant terror.

Becca’s escalating and scary behavior severed all capacity to buffer myself with hope. Nonetheless, I still couldn’t completely give up my romantic notions of a relationship based on honesty, respect, and taking responsibility.

Beneath the spotlight of her unfathomable actions, I was consistently restored to the same gut level recognition: I had to do everything within my power to keep my daughter safe. Four days after bringing her home from Rohnert Park, two professional escorts arrived at our home at 5:00 a.m. to transport her to Cascade School. It was the first of many such life-altering decisions.

Over three years have passed since Rebecca entered Cascade School. This week she turns 18 and becomes legally responsible for all of her actions. She’s been kept alive long enough to mature and, hopefully, make wiser, safer decisions. But only time will tell.