I noticed it gradually at first. My future stepdaughter, Amila, would pad down the stairs before dawn, her little feet making soft thuds against the carpet.

She was only seven, but there she was every morning, determinedly mixing pancake batter or scrambling eggs.

I thought it was sweet at first. Most kids her age were still deep in dreams about unicorns or whatever second graders dreamed about these days while she was a poster child for a good kid.

But when I realized this was just her routine, I started to worry.

The first time I caught her carefully measuring coffee grounds into the filter, my heart nearly stopped.

Four-foot-nothing in her rainbow pajamas, dark hair neatly tied into pigtails, handling hot kitchen appliances before sunrise. It wasn't right.

"You're up early again, sweetheart," I said, watching her fill cups with hot coffee.

The kitchen counter gleamed, and the smell of fresh coffee filled the air. "Did you clean in here?"

She beamed at me, her gap-toothed smile so eager it made my heart ache.

"I wanted everything to be nice when you and Daddy woke up. Do you like the coffee? I figured out how to use the machine!"

The pride in her voice struck me as odd.

Although most kids enjoy learning how to do "adult" tasks, something in her tone came off as being a little too eager to please.

I glanced around the kitchen. Everything was spotless, and Amila had breakfast laid out like a magazine spread.

How long had she been up? How many mornings had she spent perfecting this routine while we slept?

"That's very thoughtful of you, but you really don't have to do all this," I said, helping her down from the stool. "Why don't you sleep in tomorrow? I can make breakfast."

She shook her head vigorously, dark pigtails bouncing. "I like doing it. Really!"

The desperation in her voice set off alarm bells in my head. No child should sound that anxious about skipping chores.

Ryan wandered in then, stretching and yawning. "Something smells amazing!" He ruffled Amila's hair as he passed, grabbing a mug of coffee. "Thanks, princess. You're getting to be quite the little homemaker."

I shot him a look, but he was too busy scanning his phone to notice. The word "homemaker" sat heavy in my chest, like something gone slightly rotten.

I watched Amila's face light up at his praise, and my unease grew stronger.

This became our routine — Amila playing house while we slept, me watching with growing concern, and Ryan accepting it all as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

But there was nothing natural about a child so driven to complete chores, especially ones they'd taken on all by themself. There was nothing cute about the dark circles forming under her eyes, or the way she'd flinch when she dropped something, as if expecting punishment for imperfection.

One morning, as we cleaned up after breakfast (I insisted on helping, despite her protests), I decided to dig deeper.