Two days of pacing the floor at night, of staring out the window toward her darkened house, watching for something . . . or maybe someone. Two days of telling myself it’s none of my business and failing miserably because somehow something feels very wrong.
Her return just doesn’t sit right.
Not because she’s here—she has every right to be—but because of the way she carries herself, like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. The way she hesitates before stepping onto the porch, eyes darting toward the tree line as if expecting movement. The way she jumps at sudden noises, fingers tightening around whatever she’s holding, her body going rigid before she forces herself to relax.
She’s avoiding town.
Avoiding people.
Avoiding something.
I’ve stopped by more than once, bringing food because it’s obvious she doesn’t have much in the house. She hasn’t made a single trip to the store. There’s no way she has anything in those cupboards or the fridge unless I’ve delivered it.
Every time I knock, it takes too long for her to answer. Like she’s standing on the other side, debating whether to open the door at all.
And if that’s not enough to be worried, there’s Maddie.
For the last couple of nights she’s had night terrors. Her cry shatters the silence. And just as I’m about to finally settle in for the night, there they are again. I’m out of bed before my mind fully catches up, shoving open her door.
She’s curled in the middle of the mattress, blanket fisted in both hands, her tiny chest rising and falling too fast. Tears streak her flushed cheeks, her breath hitching as she struggles to come back from whatever pulled her under.
My throat tightens.
I sit on the edge of the bed, reaching for her. “Mads, hey. I’m here.”
Her wide eyes find mine, still glossy with tears. Her lip wobbles as she clutches her blanket tighter. “Am scawed.”
Her voice is so small, so unsteady, that something inside me twists. I brush damp curls away from her forehead, my palm resting lightly against her warm skin. “I know, baby girl. But you’re safe. I promise.”
Her face is damp with tears, her lower lip trembling as she burrows into my chest, small fingers clutching my shirt. “Daddy,” she whimpers, voice wobbly. “Man outside.”
A chill runs through me. “Outside where, baby?”
She sniffles, pressing her face against my neck. “My window.”
My arms tighten around her. “Did you see his face?”
She nods, curls tickling my chin, her breath warm and uneven. “He lookin’ at me.”
I pull her closer, my mind racing. She’s two and a half—too young to make up something this vivid, but old enough to have bad dreams. Could it be her imagination? A shadow from the trees outside? Or is it something worse?
Memories? No, that’s impossible.
I glance toward the window, the curtains drawn tight. The thought of someone outside, staring into my little girl’s room, makes my stomach churn. I press a kiss to the top of her head, trying to keep my voice calm. “It’s okay, Maddie. Daddy’s here. No one’s going to hurt you.”
She sniffles, her tiny fingers gripping my shirt in tight fists. “No let him get me, Daddy.”
“I won’t,” I promise, the words burning in my throat. “I won’t let anyone near you.”
I stay with her until she drifts back to sleep, her breaths evening out against my chest. Even then, I don’t move. I sit in the dark, staring at the window, every instinct I have screaming to get up and check the locks, to grab my shotgun and patrol the yard. Call my brother to have police officers in the perimeter. But I also know I’m being too unreasonable. There’s nothing.
When I finally leave her room, it’s nearly dawn. The house is quiet. Still. I check the locks twice, then pull the curtains tighter over the windows. It’s probably nothing. Maddie’s too young to know what’s real and what’s a dream. But I can’t shake the image of her little face, filled with fear.
I can’t shake the unease.
The following day, Mrs. Johnson arrives like clockwork to watch Maddie, who’s still curled up in bed, her tiny face peaceful. She slept through the night—finally. Like the last two nights never happened.
Kids are resilient like that. They take what the world throws at them, shake it off, and keep going.
