That morning, while I was making breakfast, Emily came out after brushing her teeth, wrapped her arms around my waist, and said in a sleepy voice:
“Mom… I didn’t sleep well last night.”
I turned and smiled.
“Why not?”
Emily frowned, thought for a moment, then said:
“My bed felt… really tight.”
I laughed.
“Your bed is two meters wide and you sleep alone—how could it feel tight? Or did you forget to tidy up and your stuffed animals and books took all the space?”
Emily shook her head.
“No, Mom. I left it clean.”
I stroked her hair, thinking it was just a child’s complaint.
But I was wrong.
The repeated words that unsettled me
Two days later.
Then three.
Then an entire week.
Every morning Emily said something similar:
“Mom, I didn’t sleep well.”
“My bed felt too small.”
“I felt like I was being pushed to one side.”
One morning she asked a question that made my blood run cold:
“Mom… did you come into my room last night?”
I crouched down and looked her in the eyes.
“No. Why?”
Emily hesitated.
“Because… it felt like someone was lying next to me.”
I forced a laugh and kept my voice calm.
“You must have been dreaming. Mom slept with Dad all night.”
But from that moment on, I stopped sleeping peacefully.
