When I got up to get a glass of water at 3:00 a.m., I found my daughter asleep at her desk, her cell phone still lit up beside her. I went to carry her to bed, just like I used to when she was little. But when I saw what was on the screen, my heart stopped.
The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I made my way down the hallway at 3:00 in the morning. At 64, my bladder had become an unreliable timekeeper, waking me at odd hours with increasing frequency. I’d learned to navigate our old farmhouse in the dark, counting steps from my bedroom door to the bathroom.
Twelve forward, turn left, three more. But that night, something made me pause. A pale blue glow seeped from beneath Beatatric’s door, the one at the end of the hall.
My daughter had been staying with me for three weeks now, ever since her divorce from Kenneth became final. She’d said she needed time to think, to figure out her next steps. At 42, she’d told me she felt like she was starting over from scratch.
I understood that feeling more than she knew. The light from her room bothered me. Beatatrice had always been an early sleeper, even as a child.
I stood there in my nightgown, debating whether to check on her or respect her privacy. The mother in me won out. It always did.
I knocked softly. No answer. “Beatatrice,” I whispered, turning the handle slowly.
“Honey, are you still awake?”
The door opened to reveal my daughter slumped over her desk, her head resting on her crossed arms. Her phone lay beside her, screen still glowing with that unnatural blue light. She’d fallen asleep while looking at something, her reading glasses askew on her face.
My heart softened at the sight. She looked so much like she had at 16, studying too late for exams, pushing herself too hard. I crossed the room quietly, intending to wake her gently and guide her to bed.
As I reached for her shoulder, my eyes fell on the phone screen. And everything changed. The text message thread was still open.
The contact name at the top read: M. I knew immediately it was Kenneth. Her ex-husband.
But it was the messages themselves that made my blood run cold. M: Did you move it yet? Beatatric: Tomorrow.
She’ll never know. M: You’re sure she hasn’t found it? Beatatrice: Mom doesn’t even know what she’s looking for.
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