My daughter saved our lives with a whisper.
“Daddy… there’s a red light behind my dollhouse.”
At the time, it sounded like the kind of thing kids say all the time—shadows that look like monsters, creaking floorboards that become footsteps, toys that move “by themselves.” I barely looked up from tucking the blanket under her chin. It had been a long day. I’d been in back-to-back meetings, my eyes still gritty from too many hours staring at screens, my mind already halfway to the email I needed to answer once she fell asleep.
But something about the way she said it made me stop.
Her small fingers tightened around my sleeve, the way she used to when she was a toddler and thunder scared her. She didn’t sound whiny or dramatic. She sounded… cautious. Like she was afraid that if she spoke too loud, whatever she’d seen might hear her.
