That morning, while I was standing at the kitchen counter making scrambled eggs and toast, Emily came out after brushing her teeth, still in her pajamas, and wrapped her arms around my waist from behind. Her voice was sleepy and uncertain when she said, “Mom, I didn’t sleep well last night.”
I turned and smiled, spatula in hand, assuming she’d had a bad dream or stayed up too late reading. “Why not, sweetheart?”
Emily frowned, her eight-year-old face scrunching in concentration as she tried to articulate something that clearly confused her. “My bed felt really tight. Like there wasn’t enough space.”
I actually laughed, thinking it was just one of those odd things children say. “Your bed is two meters wide and you sleep alone—how could it possibly feel tight? Did you forget to clean up and leave all your stuffed animals and books spread out?”
Emily shook her head firmly. “No, Mom. I put everything away before bed, just like you taught me.”
I stroked her hair, dismissing it as a child’s complaint about nothing. But I was wrong. So completely, heartbreakingly wrong.
Two days later, it happened again. Then three days. Then an entire week. Every single morning, Emily came to breakfast with the same complaint, phrased slightly differently each time but always carrying the same unsettling message: “Mom, I didn’t sleep well.” “My bed felt too small.” “I felt like I was being pushed to one side.” “It was like something was taking up space.”
I started paying closer attention to her face when she said these things. There were shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before, a tiredness that eight-year-olds shouldn’t carry. She was losing the brightness I’d always associated with her mornings.
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