Sophie had slept in her own room since she was five. We wanted her to feel confident and independent. Her bedroom was painted light lavender, with a wide bed covered in star patterned sheets. A small telescope stood by the window. Every night I sat beside her, read a chapter from a book, and kissed her goodnight. She never asked to sleep with us. She never seemed afraid of the dark.
Until the strange mornings began.
One Tuesday, as I was stirring oatmeal in the kitchen, Sophie shuffled in rubbing her eyes. She leaned against my side and murmured, “Mom, I did not sleep well.”
I smiled and asked, “Was it a bad dream, sweetheart?”
She shook her head slowly and said, “No, my bed felt crowded. I kept getting pushed to the side.”
I laughed lightly and answered, “Your bed is huge and you sleep alone. Maybe you rolled too much.”
She looked up at me, serious in a way children rarely are, and replied, “I stayed in the middle. Something else was there.”
I kissed her hair and changed the topic, yet a tiny stone of worry settled in my chest.