When my daughter suddenly stopped calling, I knew something was wrong. Weeks of unanswered texts and missed holidays left me restless, and then my son mentioned she’d told him her husband didn’t want her to work or drive. He brushed it off as “traditional,” but I knew my daughter. She wouldn’t just agree to that. My gut screamed that something wasn’t right.

The next morning, I drove six hours straight to her apartment. When she opened the door, she looked thinner, exhausted, and on edge. My heart dropped—I was ready to fight if I had to. I told her to come with me, but she whispered, “I can’t leave. Not yet.” Fear tightened in my chest as she finally let me inside.

The apartment was chaos—shredded curtains, cushions missing, hay in the kitchen. My worst fears churned as I followed her into the living room. But then I stopped, staring in disbelief. Right in the middle of the mess was the cutest little puppy gnawing on a toy, surrounded by other rescued animals.

It turned out she and her husband had signed up to foster pets, “just for a few weeks,” which had snowballed into twelve animals, including goats and kittens. I burst out laughing in relief. I had spent hours imagining the worst, only to discover my daughter wasn’t trapped in a toxic marriage—she was simply overwhelmed by fur babies.