My granddaughter never calls me on her own.
So when the phone rang that night and I heard Lila’s tiny voice whisper, “Hi Grandma… can you take me sleep at your house tonight?”—I knew something was wrong.
Her voice was too soft. Too still. It sent a chill down my spine.
Lila is five. She’s a bundle of wild energy—missing front teeth, curly blonde hair that bounces when she runs, always caught up in something magical. She tells me stories about unicorns who moonlight as astronauts, dragons who eat pancakes for dinner. She never whispers. She shouts with joy.
She doesn’t call me—not by herself.
“Of course, sweetie,” I said gently, trying to keep my voice calm. “Is Mommy there?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “But she’s pretending.”
I sat up straighter. “Pretending what, baby?”
“That she’s not scared.”
Something seized in my chest.
“Where is she now?”
“In the bathroom. The door is closed as—”
