The Vanishing Point
I often sit alone in my room, staring at the ceiling, wondering if God ever really heard my prayers. Sometimes I think He must have been busy with other children who needed Him more, because mine went unanswered. Or maybe, just maybe, I was never meant to have the things I desired most. Every child wants the same simple thing: to live a happy life with their parents. I was no different.
From the outside, it looked like I had everything. My parents were rich, famous, and admired by almost everyone who knew them. My friends would envy me, whispering about the glamorous life I led—fancy shows, exotic restaurants, long vacations on private beaches, and the kind of freedom where nothing was ever out of reach. If I wanted a new gadget, I got it. If I wanted expensive sneakers, they were waiting for me before I even asked. My life looked like a dream.
But here's the thing I've learned at just sixteen years old: wealth and fame aren't everything.
My name is Laurence Daisy, and though I live in a mansion and my last name carries weight in certain places, I'm still just a high school student trying to navigate the stormy sea of adolescence. Except I have to do it without one of the most important people in my world—my dad. The prayer I had whispered countless times, the one where I begged God for a happy family, went unanswered.
It all changed the day my father disappeared.
I grew up in a sprawling estate that most kids only saw in magazines. Our mansion stood on top of a hill, its white stone walls catching the sun so brightly it almost hurt to look at sometimes. The driveway curved like a snake, lined with tall exotic trees imported from who-knows-where, and at the center of the front lawn was a fountain that seemed to dance when the water caught the light.
Inside, the house was no less impressive. A crystal chandelier hung over the sitting room, scattering flecks of rainbow light on the polished hardwood floors. The dining room had a table long enough to seat twenty people, though it was usually just the three of us—Mom, Dad, and me. And then there was the library, my mother's pride, filled wall to wall with books she barely had the time to read.
My bedroom was a kingdom of its own. My parents had let me design it when I was nine, so it was decorated with posters of my favorite basketball players, shelves full of action figures, and a desk that always had more sketchpads than homework on it. From the window, I could see the gardens stretching out in perfect rows, carefully maintained by the gardeners. Sometimes I would sit there and wonder why, in all that beauty, I still felt something missing.
My father was no ordinary man. Donald Laurence wasn't just my dad—he was a star. A professional basketball player with the kind of presence that filled a room, even when he wasn't trying. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and always seemed to have a spark in his eyes when he looked at me. To the world, he was a legend on the court. To me, he was simply Dad.
People say children usually cling to their mothers, but I was the opposite. My mom, Victoria Laurence, was a businesswoman who built an empire with her spa brand, Victoria Spa Limited. She was sharp, elegant, and always busy. I respected her, but she was more like a force of nature sweeping through the house than someone I could talk to.
Dad was different. He had time for me. He took me to his basketball games, bought me popcorn, and let me stay up late to watch movies. When the world outside felt too loud, he was the quiet place I could run to.
One of my favorite memories was from when I was ten. Dad had a big game, and I sat courtside wearing a jersey with his name on it. The stadium roared when he scored a slam dunk, and he ran straight toward me, giving me a high five that nearly stung my palm. The cameras flashed, and for a second, I thought the entire world saw what I already knew: that I was the luckiest kid alive.
But that was before everything shattered.
It was an ordinary Tuesday morning when it happened. I remember because I had a math test I wasn't ready for, and I was too nervous to eat breakfast. Dad sat at the table with me, ruffling my hair as he sipped his coffee. Mom was already on her phone, barking orders to her assistant. It felt like every other day in our busy, glamorous home.
Then, by the time I got back from school, he was gone.
No note. No explanation. Not even a clue. It was as if the earth had swallowed him whole.
I asked my mom where he was, but she just stared at me, her lips pressed tight, eyes red like she had been crying. She muttered something about not knowing and left the room. For weeks, we searched. The police came and went. Neighbors whispered. Headlines speculated. Some said he had run away, others claimed he was kidnapped, and a few suggested darker things I couldn't bear to hear.
But no one found him.
After Dad vanished, I changed.
I used to be lively, laughing at dumb jokes, playing basketball in the driveway until Mom yelled at me to come inside. Suddenly, none of it mattered. I stopped playing basketball. My shoes gathered dust in the corner of my room. I stopped drawing and instead filled notebooks with scribbles that made no sense. At school, I zoned out during class, staring out the window like I was waiting for someone to appear.
Kids started calling me names. Weirdo. Lost boy. Some even whispered that my father had abandoned us, and that maybe I was destined to end up the same way. I tried to ignore them, but their words cut deeper than they realized.
At home, things weren't better. Mom buried herself in work, expanding her spa business like she was trying to fill her own void. She rarely sat down with me, and when she did, she looked exhausted. She didn't know how to comfort me, and I didn't know how to reach her. We lived in the same house, but it felt like we were galaxies apart.
Sometimes, when the loneliness grew too heavy, I talked to Dad.
I would sit in my room, clutching one of his basketball jerseys, and whisper about my day. I told him when I failed a test, when I overheard kids mocking me, when I couldn't sleep because the silence in the mansion was unbearable. I imagined his voice answering me, telling me it would be okay.
"Keep your head up, champ," I could almost hear him say.
It was strange, I knew. Some people would think I had lost my mind. But it was the only way I could keep him alive.
By the time I turned sixteen, the questions had only multiplied. Where did Dad go? Why hadn't he come back? Did he leave us by choice, or was he taken from us? Sometimes, I thought I saw him in crowds—in the tall man walking quickly down the street, in the stranger with broad shoulders at the mall—but it was never him. Just shadows playing tricks on me.
Despite the emptiness, I still carried hope. A fragile, trembling hope that maybe one day, he would walk through the door, grinning like he had only been gone a few hours.
I prayed, even though I wasn't sure if God was listening. I prayed for answers, for healing, for the return of the family I once had.