For a second, I thought I’d misheard. The word echoed in the dark space under the bed like it belonged to someone else’s nightmare. But then Lucy said it again, her voice cracking:
“Mom… please… I can’t do this anymore. I’m your daughter.”
The mattress creaked above me as she curled into herself. Her white sneakers pulled back, knees drawn to her chest. I could see her hands gripping her ankles so tightly the knuckles were white. She was rocking slightly, the way little kids do when they’re trying to comfort themselves.
I wanted to crawl out. I wanted to scream. But something — rage, shock, pure terror — pinned me to the dusty floor. My own daughter. Under my roof. While I was out pouring concrete and chasing overtime.
Minutes passed. I heard Lucy get up, walk to the bathroom, and run the shower. The sound of water hitting the tiles mixed with her muffled crying. When she finally left the room, I slid out from under the bed like a ghost.
My hands were shaking so badly I could barely hold my phone. I opened the voice recorder app and set it to record, then placed it carefully on the nightstand, partially hidden behind the lamp.
I needed proof.
That night, when Veronica came home from her shift at the hospital, she acted completely normal. Kissed me on the cheek. Asked about work. Complained about traffic on the Turnpike. She even made Lucy’s favorite pasta for dinner.
Lucy barely touched it. She kept her eyes on her plate, shoulders hunched like she was trying to disappear.
Veronica noticed. “Lucy, honey, you’ve been so quiet lately. Everything okay at school?”
The fake concern in her voice made my stomach turn.
The next two days, I became a shadow in my own house.
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