My daughter, Lila, never cried at night. From the moment we brought her home, she was a dream sleeper. Other parents talked about midnight screaming fits, colic, or endless rocking sessions, but not us. Lila just curled into her duck-patterned blanket and slept soundly, her soft breaths reminding me of a kitten purring in her sleep.
Our evenings were quiet and gentle.
Adrian, my husband, would be in the kitchen stirring cocoa while I lay on the couch, listening to the faint lullaby melody of the mobile above Lila’s crib drifting through the monitor speakers. I’d catch myself thinking, This is it. This is happiness.
A few minutes later, Adrian would pad barefoot out of Lila’s room, grinning like he’d won a contest.
“She’s out in two minutes flat. What is that, some magic lullaby?”
I’d smirk. “Nah. She knows who’s in charge around here.”
He would drop onto the couch beside me, set two steaming mugs on the table, and pull me into his arms.
“Look at us, Marisa. Can you believe we’re those parents? The ones who record every sneeze?”
I laughed, because it was true. We had literally filmed her first sneeze and sent it to everyone, family, friends, even my old coworkers. Life felt simple. Right. Stable.
Until the noises started.
The first time I woke up, it was 3:15 a.m. The house was silent except for Adrian’s steady snores. I was about to roll over when I heard it, a faint rustling, like fabric shifting. It came from down the hall, from the nursery.
I nudged Adrian. “Hey. You hear that?”
“Hm? What?” he muttered, half-asleep.
“Something in Lila’s room…”
“Probably just her rolling over. Go back to sleep, Riss.”
But I couldn’t.
Barefoot on cold wood, I crept down the hallway and cracked Lila’s door. My heart thudded as I peeked inside.
Nothing.
The toys were tucked neatly in their basket. The mobile spun lazily overhead. Lila lay curled in her blanket, peaceful as ever. I stood there for a full minute, straining to hear the sound again. But there was only silence.
The next night, it happened again. And again. That soft, almost human rustling.
On the third night, Adrian had had enough.
“Riss, it’s the vents. Or the pipes. This house isn’t new.”
“I’m telling you, it sounds like someone’s in there,” I insisted. “One of these nights I’m going to open the door and…” I swallowed. “And something will actually be there.”
“What?” he said with a smirk. “A diaper thief? A baby ghost?”
I didn’t laugh.
The next morning, I ordered a baby monitor. My best friend, Alyssa, had raved about one that had audio, video, night vision, and even remote access.
“You’re being paranoid,” she said in a voice note, half laughing. “But fine, that one’s amazing. You’ll sleep like a rock.”
When it arrived, I mounted the little camera above Lila’s crib, angled it perfectly, and tested it. The picture was so clear I could count her tiny fingers.
“That’s it,” I told Adrian that night as we got into bed. “I’m finally going to sleep.”
“Hallelujah,” he muttered, kissing my forehead.
I set the monitor on the nightstand and closed my eyes, comforted by the sight of her chest rising and falling on the tiny screen.
But maybe fifteen minutes later, everything shattered.
A scream. Sharp, piercing. Lila.
I bolted upright, snatched the monitor—and froze.
The image flickered, static rolling across the screen. And then, just for a split second, a shadow appeared behind the crib. Broad shoulders, an arm reaching in.
I screamed.
“Adrian! Wake up!”
I burst into the nursery like my feet weren’t touching the ground. Lila was wailing, her face red and sweaty. But the room was empty.
My eyes darted everywhere under the crib, into the closet, even behind the curtains. Nothing. Just the eerie stillness of the night.
Then I saw it.
Her bottle. On the floor by the rocking chair.
I picked it up. The plastic was warm. Not lukewarm warm. Someone had heated this. Recently.
“What the—”
“Marisa?” Adrian stumbled in, half-dressed, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on?”
I gathered Lila into my arms. Her diaper was soaked, and she hiccupped against my shoulder.
“I got her,” I said, carrying her to the changing table, trying to keep my hands from shaking.
“You said she was screaming?”
“I saw something. On the monitor. A shadow. Behind the crib. A person.”
“A person?” he repeated, brows knitting.
“Yes. And look.” I pointed to the bottle. “Someone warmed this up.”
Adrian blinked at it, then shook his head. “You sure you didn’t do that in your sleep? You’ve sleepwalked before, Riss. Remember the time you tried to make grilled cheese with the iron?”
“This isn’t the same. Adrian, I didn’t warm that bottle.”
He walked over, picked up the monitor, and frowned at the static still flickering on the screen. “You’ve been on edge for days. First the noises, now this. Maybe it’s just nerves.”
“It wasn’t nerves. It was a person.”
“She probably just needed a diaper change,” he said gently, stroking Lila’s hair. “Babies do that. It’s not some horror story.”
“And the bottle?”
“You made it. Without remembering. Happens.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I didn’t. And even if I had—why would I leave it on the floor?”
He sighed and pulled out his phone. “Fine. I’ll check the alarm log.”
While he tapped through the app, I finished changing Lila. She was already calming down, her little body sagging into my arms.
“Everything’s secure,” Adrian said after a moment. “No breaches. No open doors. Nothing. The system would’ve alerted us.”
I didn’t answer. Something still wasn’t right.
I carried Lila back to her crib, then walked to the window. A sliver of cold air slipped through a gap. It wasn’t shut all the way.
I reached to pull it closed and felt something catch.
Hanging from the sill was a tiny silver pendant, a heart charm, cracked down the middle.
My stomach dropped.
I knew exactly who it belonged to.
I could barely wait for morning. At exactly seven, our nanny rang the bell. I handed Lila over with two bottles, a blanket, and a forced smile.
“Please don’t take your eyes off her,” I said. “I won’t be long.”
Then I drove.
The house sat stubbornly in its hollow by the trees, sagging porch and peeling paint unchanged. The same chipped ceramic owl perched on the railing. The same lace curtains hung in the windows. It was like time had frozen.
I hadn’t been here in years. And there was a reason for that.
Before I could knock, the door opened.
“I figured you’d come,” my mother said.
“You broke into my house,” I snapped, pushing past her. “I don’t want to see you. I don’t want you anywhere near my family.”
“I just wanted to hold her,” she whispered. “Just once. Just for a moment.”
“How did you even get in? We have a security system.”
She didn’t answer.
Then I heard a creak behind me. I spun around—and saw Adrian stepping into the hallway.
“You?!” My voice cracked. “You’re in on this?”
He raised his hands. “I caught her once. She was rocking Lila in the nursery. I almost called the cops. But she begged me not to tell you.”
I stared at him, then at her. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”
My mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Because you don’t know the truth. About why I wasn’t there when you were a child.”
“What truth?” I hissed.
“Your father had someone else,” she said softly. “He didn’t want a court battle. Didn’t want to fight. So he used his influence to have me committed. Declared me unstable.”
My knees nearly buckled. “No… no, that’s not true.”
“It is. He made sure I couldn’t see you. Couldn’t call. Nothing. And do you know who helped him? Your Aunt Valerie.”
I staggered back. “No. She took care of me. She was kind. She… she raised me.”
“She raised you,” my mother said bitterly, “after keeping me locked away for five years. She was head of the psychiatric department. She and your father made sure I disappeared.”
I sank into the nearest chair, trembling.
“You came back,” I whispered.
“I tried,” she said. “When you were in college, I stood outside your classroom once. Hoping you’d look at me. But you didn’t want to see me.”
“I thought you didn’t want me.”
“They let me out once you were gone. Once there was nothing left to divide.”
Adrian stepped forward. “I didn’t believe her at first, Marisa. That’s why I hired a private investigator. I needed proof. Everything checked out. When I knew it was true, I went to a lawyer. We’re working on it now.”
I turned to him, my voice sharp. “And all that time, you just let her sneak into our house?”
“I left the back window cracked. Disabled the alarm. Only for her. I made sure it was safe.”
“You lied to me. Both of you. Every night.”
“No,” Adrian said. “We were waiting. Until we could tell you the truth.”
I looked between them—my mother, whom I had hated for years, and my husband, the man I trusted most.
“I don’t know what to feel,” I whispered. “But I’m exhausted. I’m going back to Lila. If either of you wants to be useful, make dinner. We’ll talk then.”
I walked out into the sunlight and drove home.
In the quiet that followed, grief and anger churned inside me. Years of lies. Years of silence. A stolen childhood I could never reclaim. But beneath the fury, something else flickered.
Love.
Hope.
The thought that Lila might grow up with a grandmother who truly loved her. That maybe, just maybe, I could have a mother again.
And for the first time in years, I let myself believe that broken things could be mended.
