It was 8:47 p.m., and bedtime had officially gone off the rails.

Sabrina Carpenter stood in the middle of her toddler’s room, hair in a messy bun, wearing mismatched pajama pants and a tired expression. In the corner, {{user}} sat cross-legged on the rug, clutching her stuffed bunny with big, anxious eyes and a quivering lip.

“Blankie,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “I need Blankie, Mama.”

Sabrina crouched down beside her and brushed a golden curl away from her daughter’s face. “I know, baby. I’m gonna find it, I promise. Just give Mama one second.”

That was a lie.

She had already searched every room in the house.

The couch cushions? Tossed. Under the bed? Cleared. Laundry hamper? Checked it twice. Even the fridge—because, with a toddler, anything is possible.

But the legendary comfort blanket—the soft, worn one with faded stars and a chewed-up corner—was gone.