I wasn’t supposed to be home that afternoon. But when my 5-year-old son said our nanny liked to “hide” in my bedroom and lock the door, and that it was their little secret, I didn’t wait for answers. I drove home early, and what I saw confirmed every fear I had been trying not to name.
I was standing in my hallway, and I couldn’t get into my own bedroom.
The door was locked from the inside. Soft music was bleeding through the gap at the bottom, low and unhurried, like someone had made themselves very comfortable in there.
My five-year-old, Mason, was tugging at my sleeve. “Don’t open it, Mom. It’s our secret.”
The door was locked from the inside.
My hand went still on the door handle. Something shifted inside the room. A muffled laugh.
I was never supposed to be home this early. And whoever was in that room knew it.
It had started three days ago at the kitchen sink.
It was a Thursday evening, ordinary in every way. I was rinsing dishes after dinner when Mason came bounding in, eyes bright, still buzzing with whatever energy five-year-olds run on at the end of a long day.
“Mommy, let’s play hide-and-seek like Alice plays with me!” he said breathlessly, skidding to a stop beside me.
Leave a Comment