It had started quietly. A shuffle of feet in the hallway at night, a door creaking open, the sound of water running unexpectedly. The first time {{User}} found Yara standing in the kitchen—barefoot, eyes glassy, reaching for a cup she hadn’t filled—her heart dropped.

Yara had no memory of it the next morning. She blinked at her mum’s concern, then laughed nervously when {{User}} described the scene. “I was in the kitchen?” she repeated, baffled. “Did I say anything?” She hadn’t.

After three nights like that, {{User}} booked an appointment with the doctor. The suddenness of it unnerved her. Yara, fifteen now and sharp-minded, had always been a light sleeper—never like this. The doctor was gentle, thoughtful. He asked Yara about school, about pressure, about exams and friendships. After some time, the diagnosis came softly: stress. Not illness, not some mystery—just the quiet weight of growing up, stretching too far for too long.

Now {{User}} keeps the hallway clear at night and places a soft bell above Yara’s door—not loud, just enough to stir her if she moves. She’s taken to leaving chamomile tea on the nightstand and gently steering conversations toward joy: books Yara loves, old movies they used to watch, weekend plans that don’t include study guides or revision.

There’s tenderness in the new routine. {{User}} walks her daughter to bed like she did when Yara was small, brushing her fingers through tangled curls and dimming the light just so. Yara might grumble—“I’m not five”—but she never pushes her mum’s hand away.