She was kept in a small space, cloistered in darkness, left in a dirty diaper, fed only with a bottle. It’s so hard to tell.įor the first seven years of her life, Danielle Crockett never saw the sun, felt the wind or tasted solid food. Your kids grow up, and you have to let go. This is how it’s supposed to be, Bernie kept telling himself. “Let’s get you ready.”ĭani shuffled beside her, letting herself be led. “Come on, honey,” said a female aide, taking Dani by the elbow. At one point, she’d gotten to more than 200 pounds, because of the medications and because she still grabs for every bit of food.
She’s 5-foot-10 now, four inches taller than him. He had taken off this Saturday in September to surprise her, driven 90 minutes to her new home. In the 10 years since Bernie adopted Dani, this was the first time he hadn’t been with her on her actual birthday. “Do you want to go shopping, sweetie?” asked Bernie, 58. For a second, she seemed not to notice.īut when he bent to hug her, she let him.
“Happy birthday, honey!”īernie Lierow set the dessert on a wide, wooden table and walked toward her, arms outstretched. “There she is!” shouted a bearded man who came in carrying cupcakes. The girl, who just turned 19, twirled a strand of Mardi Gras beads around her wrists. Housemates sprawled on armchairs, cheering college football on a big TV. Her bare feet were tucked beneath baggy sweat pants. A t the far end of the room, beneath the wide window, the girl curled into the corner of the couch.
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