Her bedroom was beautiful. A king-sized bed with a high-end mattress. Shelves filled with novels and sketchbooks. Plush animals lined carefully along the window bench. A soft amber nightlight cast warm shadows across the walls.
Every night followed the same ritual: story, forehead kiss, blanket tuck, lights dimmed.
She had always slept peacefully.
Until the morning she said:
“Mom… my bed felt really tight last night.”
I was at the stove making pancakes when she wrapped her arms around my waist.
“I didn’t sleep well,” she said.
“Bad dream?” I asked lightly.
She shook her head.
“It felt like there wasn’t enough space.”
I laughed.
“Sophie, that bed is huge. You barely use half of it.”
“I know,” she insisted. “But it felt like something was there.”
I brushed it off.
Then she said it again the next morning.
And the next.
For a week, she repeated variations of the same complaint:
“I felt pushed.”
“It felt crowded.”
“It was like someone was next to me.”
Dark circles began forming under her eyes. The sparkle in her mornings faded.
Then one day she asked quietly:
“Mom… did you come into my room last night?”
My heart skipped.
“No, honey. Why?”
“It felt like someone was lying beside me.”