When Mika was still in preschool, I made a conscious decision to teach her how to sleep on her own. It wasn’t because I lacked affection—quite the opposite. I believed that independence, built gently and early, would help her grow stronger. I wanted her to feel safe in her own space, confident even when she was alone.

Her bedroom reflected that care. It was the nicest room in the house: a wide bed large enough for two adults, fitted with an expensive mattress we had bought from a mall in Quezon City; shelves lined with colorful comics, folktales, and legends; stuffed toys arranged neatly like loyal guards; and a soft yellow night light that made the room feel warm instead of lonely. Every night followed the same ritual. I read her a story, kissed her forehead, whispered “good night,” and turned off the light. Mika never cried. She never asked to come sleep with us.

Until one morning, everything changed.

While I was cooking breakfast—fried rice and eggs—Mika finished brushing her teeth and suddenly wrapped her arms around my waist. Her voice was sleepy and unusually quiet.
“Mom… I didn’t sleep well last night.”

I smiled, not alarmed.
“Why not, sweetheart?”

She paused, thinking hard.
“It feels like… the bed is too small.”

I laughed softly. Her bed was huge, and she slept alone. I assumed she had rolled onto her toys. But she shook her head.
“No, Mom. My bed is neat.”

At first, I brushed it off as a child’s strange way of describing a bad night. But the comments didn’t stop. Days passed. Then a week. Every morning brought the same complaints:
“It feels cramped.”
“I can’t sleep.”
“It’s like someone is pushing me to the edge.”

Then she asked something that made my stomach tighten.
“Mom… did you come into my room last night?”

I knelt down and looked straight into her eyes.
“No. Why?”

She hesitated.
“Because… it felt like someone was sleeping beside me.”

I forced a laugh, keeping my voice calm, telling her it was probably a dream. But from that moment on, sleep no longer came easily to me. A mother knows when fear is real, and Mika wasn’t imagining comfort—she was describing intrusion.

I told my husband, Ramon, a doctor who often came home exhausted in the early hours of the morning. He waved it off gently.
“Kids have vivid imaginations. Our house is safe.”

I didn’t argue. Instead, I installed a small CCTV camera in the corner of Mika’s ceiling—not to invade her privacy, but to quiet my own fear.

That night, everything looked normal. Mika slept peacefully. The bed was neat. No movement. No disturbance. I exhaled in relief.

Until two in the morning.

I woke up thirsty and passed through the living room. Without thinking, I opened the camera feed on my phone—just to reassure myself.

What I saw made my entire body go cold.

And in that moment, sitting there in the dark, I realized my daughter had never been wrong.