At first, I thought Emily was having nightmares.
But as a mother, I could see the fear in her eyes.
I talked to my husband, Daniel Mitchell, a very busy surgeon who often came home late after long shifts.
After listening to me, he smiled lightly.
“Kids imagine things. Our house is safe… nothing like that could happen.”
I didn’t argue.
I simply installed a camera.
A small, discreet camera in the corner of the ceiling in Emily’s room. Not to spy on my daughter, but to reassure myself.
That night, Emily slept peacefully.
The bed was clear.
No clutter.
Nothing taking up space.
I exhaled, relieved.
Until 2 a.m.
2 a.m. — The moment I will never forget
I woke up thirsty.
As I passed through the living room, I opened the camera feed on my phone out of habit, just to make sure everything was okay.
And then…
I froze.
On the screen, Emily’s bedroom door slowly opened.
A figure entered.
Thin body.
Gray hair.
Slow, unsteady steps.
I covered my mouth, my heart pounding, when I realized:
It was my mother-in-law… Margaret Mitchell.
She walked straight to Emily’s bed.
Gently lifted the blanket.
And then lay down next to her granddaughter.
As if… it were her own bed.
Emily shifted, pushed toward the edge of the mattress. She frowned in her sleep but didn’t wake up.
And I…
I cried without making a single sound.
