I came home late, shoes soft on the hallway rug, and saw a quilt bunched under the stairs. My daughter, Lina, lay curled there, backpack for a pillow. I touched her shoulder; she flinched.
“It’s quieter,” she whispered. “I can hear the stairs creak… if he comes.”
Ice slid through me. My boyfriend had a key for “emergencies.” I’d trusted convenience over caution. Lina’s small voice carried months I hadn’t noticed. I wrapped her in the quilt, locked the deadbolt, then turned my phone into a hammer: texts, keys retrieved, the end spelled out.
We moved a reading lamp into her room, set the bed against the wall she liked, and stacked books like ramparts. That night, the house sighed differently.
“Can I sleep in my bed?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, sitting beside her. “And I’ll listen before anything else.”
