She did not turn toward me, nor did she remove her gaze from the crib where Benjamin slept soundly beneath his pale blue blanket. After a long pause that unsettled me more than I expected, she slowly shook her head with a seriousness that felt deeply unfamiliar.
“What is wrong, my love, since you never resist bedtime like this before?” I asked softly.
Her voice emerged barely above a whisper, fragile yet unwavering in conviction.
“He needs me to stay here tonight because something feels wrong,” she murmured carefully.
I assumed exhaustion and adjustment explained her unusual attachment, because sibling transitions often stirred emotions children struggled to articulate clearly. With gentle persistence, I lifted her into my arms and carried her toward her bedroom, where she offered no resistance yet continued glancing anxiously toward the hallway. That lingering look planted a quiet unease in my chest, although I dismissed it as maternal overthinking fueled by sleep deprivation.