I remember the first time Lina held her baby sister.

Her little arms trembled slightly, but her smile was so wide I thought her cheeks might crack. She looked at the bundle in her lap — at the tiny pink face wrapped snugly in a yellow blanket — like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment.

Her bright red suspenders clashed horribly with the blanket, but she didn’t care. She was proud — proud to finally be the “big sister.”

I leaned back against the hospital pillows, exhausted and aching in every part of my body. Four years with just Lina had made our world feel small and perfect. She had kissed my swollen belly every night and asked the same question every morning: “Is she here yet, Mommy?”

And now, she was.

Maybe, I thought, things will be even more perfect.

Lina leaned closer, her nose almost brushing her sister’s tiny one. Then, with a softness that didn’t match her usual loud energy, she whispered, “I have someone to keep secrets with now.”

I blinked. “Secrets?”

She nodded, her eyes never leaving the baby. “Like the ones I keep from Daddy.”

The words hit me like a pinprick to the heart. Before I could say anything, she looked up at me, smiled sweetly, and said, “It’s okay, Mommy. She doesn’t tell either.”

A strange chill crept through me.

I forced a little laugh. “Well, sweetheart, babies can’t talk yet. What kind of secrets do you mean?”

She just kissed the baby’s forehead and shrugged. “I’m hungry. Can I have a cookie?”

That was the end of it — or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Lina had always had a vivid imagination. She made up songs about clouds being God’s pillows and had an invisible dragon named Toffee who slept under her bed. “Secrets” sounded like another one of her fantasies.

Still… the way she said it lingered.

I didn’t mention it to my husband, James, that night. He’d just come home from another long shift at the call center, his face drawn and tired. I didn’t want to add “weird kid stories” to his list of worries.

For the next few days, everything seemed normal. Lina helped fetch diapers, sang lullabies (terribly off-key), and treated her sister, Elsie, like the most precious doll she’d ever owned.

And then she stopped mentioning secrets — for a while.

Two months later, on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, I was half-dozing on the couch, nursing Elsie, when I heard Lina whispering in the living room.

Her tone was hushed, serious.

“No, Daddy doesn’t get to know,” she said. “That’s the rule.”

I froze.

Her back was to me. She was crouched beside her dollhouse, two dolls in her hands.

“Why can’t Daddy know?” I asked lightly, trying to sound amused.

She jumped — too fast, too guilty. “Nothing! Just doll stuff!”

“Wow,” I teased, “those dolls sure have a lot of rules.”

Her little shoulders stiffened. “They have to follow them.” Then she rushed to her room and slammed the door.

That night, after the girls were asleep, I told James.

“She keeps saying not to tell you things,” I said quietly.

He frowned. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Secrets. Rules. She even told her dolls not to tell you today.”

James chuckled, shaking his head. “She’s four, babe. It’s probably about sneaking cookies or not brushing her teeth. You’re overthinking.”

“Maybe,” I admitted. But my stomach still felt tight.

A week later, I was outside watering the hydrangeas when I heard her again — this time talking to Elsie, who lay on a blanket beside her.

Her voice was calm, serious in that eerie way children sometimes get when they’re in their own world.

“Remember,” she said, “if Daddy asks, the monster only comes when he’s not home.”\

My heart lurched.

“What monster, Lina?” I asked.

She jumped. “It’s pretend! Just our game!”

“You said it only comes when Daddy’s not here.”

“Yeah,” she said, after a pause. “That’s when we fight it. We’re heroes.”

I forced a smile, trying to sound casual. “What does this monster look like?”

She shrugged. “Tall. Dark. No face. Sometimes it knocks on the windows. Sometimes it hides in the kitchen.”

I swallowed hard. “That’s… very creative.”

She smiled faintly and patted her baby sister’s belly. “Elsie sees it too.”

That night, I barely slept. James worked late twice a week, and suddenly those quiet evenings at home didn’t feel safe.

When Lina woke up the next morning, I asked gently, “Sweetheart, do you ever hear noises when Daddy’s gone? Or see shadows?”

She frowned, then started telling me about “talking lights” and “flying socks.” Then, mid-sentence, she went quiet. Changed the subject.

Something wasn’t right.

I bought a baby monitor with night vision and set it up in the hallway. James laughed when he saw it.

“You’re turning into a detective,” he said.

Maybe I was.

Three nights later, around 11 p.m., I saw something.

The hallway was dark. The house was silent. Then, on the grainy screen, Lina appeared outside our bedroom door.

She didn’t knock. She didn’t move. She just stood there — staring — for nearly ten minutes. Then she turned and padded back to her room.

The next morning, I asked, “Did you have a bad dream last night?”

“Nope,” she said, crunching cereal.

“Did you come to Mommy and Daddy’s room?”

She looked at me blankly. “No. I stayed in my bed.”

I knew what I’d seen.

That night, after she fell asleep, I searched her room. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. But when I lifted her pillow, I found a piece of paper — folded neatly, covered in messy crayon lines.

The drawing made my stomach twist.

A tall, black, faceless figure stood beside what looked like our kitchen table. Two small figures — one in red suspenders, one wrapped in yellow — stood next to it.

Underneath, scrawled in shaky handwriting: Don’t let him take her.

My blood went cold.

I showed James. His face went pale. “She made this?”

“Yes.”

He rubbed his temple. “She’s been having nightmares. We should take her to a child psychologist.”

I agreed. We made an appointment.

But we never made it.

Because three days later, Lina disappeared.

It was a Sunday morning.

Fifteen minutes earlier, she’d been dancing around the living room with her stuffed duck, singing nonsense songs. James was changing Elsie’s diaper. I was making breakfast.

Then… silence.

No footsteps. No giggles. No sound at all.

We tore through every room, calling her name. The doors were locked. The garden gate was shut.

I felt like I was drowning.

The police came. Drones searched the woods behind our house. Neighbors combed the streets.

Four hours later, James opened the garden shed — and found her.

Sitting on the floor. Holding Elsie in her lap.

I didn’t even know the baby was missing too until that moment.

James scooped them both up, crying.

When the panic finally passed, I sat beside Lina on her bed. My hands were still shaking.

“Sweetheart,” I whispered, “why did you take your sister out there? Why did you hide?”

Her little face went pale. “The monster said he’d take her if I didn’t.”

I swallowed hard. “Has anyone come into the house?”

She shook her head. “He doesn’t need doors.”

We took her to the psychologist two days later.

After a long session, the doctor said gently, “Your daughter is bright. Imaginative. But she shows signs of anxiety — maybe trauma.”

James frowned. “Trauma from what?”

The doctor hesitated. “Sometimes fear can come from something subtle — shouting, tension, even moments she can’t make sense of. Has she ever seemed afraid of anyone?”

James’s jaw tightened. “No.”

I wasn’t so sure.

The next day, I took Lina out for ice cream. Just the two of us.

As she finished her cone, I asked, “Sweetheart… this monster. Does he look like someone you know?”

She stared at her shoes for a long time. Then she whispered, “He smells like Daddy.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean?”

She picked at her napkin. “He doesn’t look like Daddy. But sometimes he sounds like him. Like when Daddy slams doors or yells at the TV.”

I felt the world tilt. “Are you scared of Daddy?”

She nodded slightly. “Only when you’re not home.”

That night, I confronted James.

He cried. Hard.

He told me everything.

He’d started drinking when I was pregnant — just a beer or two, but enough to blur the edges. When I was at my mother’s or asleep, he’d lose his temper. Shout at Lina. Grab her wrist when she spilled something.

“She never said anything,” he sobbed. “I thought she forgot.”

But she hadn’t.

Children remember what we wish they wouldn’t.

She’d turned her fear into something she could see. Something she could fight.

A monster.

That night, James left the house. He started therapy. So did Lina.

Healing didn’t happen overnight.

For months, she still drew shadows — though their faces slowly began to take shape. She’d wake up crying less often. Her laughter began to return, soft at first, then real.

James stayed sober. He came every Saturday for supervised visits. He brought coloring books, bubbles, and patience.

And one night, as I tucked Lina in, she whispered, “Mommy? I don’t need to keep secrets anymore.”

My throat tightened. “That’s good, sweetheart.”

She smiled — sleepy, peaceful. “Monsters don’t come when you tell the truth.”

Her words broke me. And healed me.

Because she was right.

Sometimes, the monsters aren’t hiding under the bed. They live inside the people we love — the ones who need help, forgiveness, and a chance to change.

Children deserve homes without secrets.

And parents… we owe them the truth.