My daughter Lila never cried at night. Since we brought her home, she’s always slept peacefully. Other parents talked about sleepless nights and crying babies, but not us. Lila would curl up in her duck blanket and breathe softly, like a tiny kitten.
Our nights were calm and easy.
My husband, Adrian, would make hot cocoa while I relaxed on the couch, listening to the gentle lullaby from the mobile through the baby monitor. I often thought, This is real happiness.
A few minutes later, Adrian would quietly come out of Lila’s room, smiling proudly.
“She’s asleep in two minutes. Is that magic?”
I’d laugh. “Nope, she just knows who’s boss.”
He’d sit next to me, hand me cocoa, and hug me.
“Can you believe we’re those parents? The ones who record everything?”
I laughed because it was true — we even recorded her first sneeze and sent it to everyone we knew. Life felt simple and perfect.
Until the noises began.
The first time, I woke up at 3:15 a.m. The house was quiet except for Adrian snoring. I was about to go back to sleep when I heard a faint rustling sound, like fabric moving, coming from Lila’s room.
I nudged Adrian. “Do you hear that?”
“Huh? What?” he mumbled.
“Something’s in Lila’s room…”
“She’s probably just turning over. Go back to sleep.”
But I couldn’t.
I got out of bed, my feet cold on the wooden floor, and walked down the hallway. My heart was pounding as I slowly opened Lila’s door and peeked inside.
Nothing.
The toys were all in their basket. The mobile was slowly turning. Lila was sleeping peacefully, wrapped in her blanket. I stood there for a whole minute, listening carefully, but everything was silent.
The next night, I heard it again. And again after that — that same soft, almost human-like rustling.
By the third night, Adrian was done with it.
“Riss, it’s just the vents or the pipes. This house is old,” he said.
“I’m telling you, it sounds like someone’s in there,” I insisted. “One night, I’m going to open the door and…” I paused. “And someone will actually be there.”
He smirked. “What? A diaper thief? A baby ghost?”
I didn’t find it funny.
The next morning, I decided to buy a baby monitor. My best friend Alyssa recommended one that had sound, video, night vision, and even remote viewing.
“You’re overthinking it,” she joked in a voice message. “But okay, that one’s great. You’ll sleep peacefully.”
When it arrived, I set up the small camera above Lila’s crib, adjusted it just right, and tested it. The video was so clear I could even see her tiny fingers.
“That’s it,” I told Adrian that night as we got into bed. “I’m finally going to sleep.”
“Hallelujah,” he mumbled, kissing my forehead.
I put the monitor on the bedside table and closed my eyes, feeling calm as I watched Lila’s chest gently rise and fall on the screen.
But about fifteen minutes later, everything changed.
A scream. Loud and sharp. Lila.
I shot up, grabbed the monitor — and froze.
The screen glitched with static, and for a brief second, I saw a shadow behind the crib. Broad shoulders. An arm reaching in.
I screamed.
“Adrian! Wake up!”
I ran to the nursery so fast it felt like I was flying. Lila was crying hard, her face red and sweaty — but the room was empty.
I looked everywhere: under the crib, in the closet, behind the curtains. Nothing. Just silence.
Then I noticed something.
Her bottle was on the floor by the rocking chair.
I picked it up — it was warm. Not just a little warm, but freshly heated.
“What the—”
“Marisa?” Adrian stumbled in, half-awake, rubbing his eyes. “What’s happening?”
I held Lila close. Her diaper was soaked, and she hiccupped against my shoulder.
“I’ve got her,” I said, taking her to the changing table, trying to stop my hands from shaking.
“You said she was screaming?”
“I saw someone. On the monitor. A shadow behind the crib. A person.”
“A person?” Adrian repeated, frowning.
“Yes. And look,” I said, pointing at the bottle. “Someone warmed this.”
Adrian stared at it, then shook his head. “Are you sure you didn’t do it in your sleep? You’ve sleepwalked before, Riss. Remember when you tried to make grilled cheese with the iron?”
“This isn’t the same. I didn’t warm that bottle.”
He picked up the monitor and looked at the screen, which was still flickering with static. “You’ve been stressed lately — 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, brushing Lila’s hair. “Babies do that. It’s not a horror movie.”
“And the bottle?”
“You must’ve made it without realizing. It happens.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I didn’t. And even if I had — why would I leave it on the floor?”
He sighed and took out his phone. “Fine. I’ll check the alarm system.”
While he looked through the app, I finished changing Lila. She was already calming down, relaxing in my arms.
“Everything’s secure,” Adrian said after a moment. “No alarms, no open doors, nothing. The system would’ve warned us.”
I stayed silent. Something still felt off.
I placed Lila back in her crib and walked to the window. A cold breeze slipped through a small gap — it wasn’t fully closed.
I reached to shut it and felt something catch.
Hanging from the window sill was a small silver pendant, a heart charm, cracked down the middle.
My stomach twisted.
I knew exactly who it belonged to.
I could hardly wait for morning. At exactly seven, our nanny rang the doorbell. 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 got in the car and drove.
The house looked exactly the same as it always had — old, worn down, with peeling paint and a sagging porch. The same chipped ceramic owl sat on the railing, and the same lace curtains hung in the windows. It felt like time had stopped.
I hadn’t been here in years. And there was a reason for that.
Before I could even knock, the door opened.
“I knew 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 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 sound behind me. I turned — and saw Adrian.
“You?!” My voice shook. “You were part of this?”
He raised his hands. “I caught her once. She was rocking Lila in the nursery. I almost called the police. But she begged me not to tell you.”
I looked at him, then at her. “Why? Why would you do this to me?”
Tears filled my mother’s eyes. “Because you don’t know the truth — the reason I wasn’t there when you were little.”
“What truth?” I hissed.
“Your father had someone else,” she said quietly. “He didn’t want a messy court battle. So he used his power to have me committed — declared me mentally unstable.”
My knees almost gave out. “No… that’s not true.”
“It is. He made sure I couldn’t see you, couldn’t call you. And do you know who helped him? Your Aunt Valerie.”
I stumbled back. “No. She took care of me. She was kind. She… raised me.”
“She raised you,” my mother said bitterly, “after helping lock me away for five years. She was head of the psychiatric department. She and your father made sure I disappeared.”
I sat down, shaking.
“You came back,” I whispered.
“I tried,” she said. “When you were in college, I stood outside your classroom once, hoping you’d see me. But you didn’t.”
“I thought you didn’t want me.”
“They let me go once you were grown — once there was nothing left to fight over.”
Adrian stepped closer. “I didn’t believe her at first, Marisa. That’s why I hired a private investigator. I needed proof. And everything she said was true. I even went to a lawyer. We’re working on it now.”
I glared at him. “And all that time, you just let her sneak into our house?”
“I left the window slightly open. Turned off 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, who I’d hated for so long, and my husband, the man I trusted most.
“I don’t know what to feel,” I whispered. “But I’m tired. I’m going back to Lila. If either of you wants to help, make dinner. We’ll talk then.”
I walked outside into the sunlight and drove home.
In the silence that followed, anger and sadness swirled inside me. Years of lies. Years of being kept in the dark. A stolen childhood I could never get back. But under the anger, something else appeared.
Love.
Hope.
The thought that Lila could grow up with a grandmother who truly cared for her. And that maybe — just maybe — I could have a mother again.
And for the first time in years, I allowed myself to believe that broken things could be repaired.