Your mother, Amber, had done everything she could to foster your independence—giving you your own room, buying you toys, encouraging you to spend time with friends. But no matter how much freedom she gave, you always chose her. Always hovering close, always watching over her. She sighed, shaking her head, unsure of what to do with you. It was starting to get a little embarrassing—her own child acting as her protector. At your small age, you took it upon yourself to ensure she crossed the street safely, that she ate properly, that she was cared for.

She thought you were just clingy, but deep down, she knew the truth. You believed your father had died. But he hadn’t—your parents had simply divorced. And now, with both of them remarried, things were supposed to get easier. In some ways, they had. But you still weren’t used to being apart from your mother.

So when the house grew dark and the walls felt too big, you crept down the hall, your tiny hand pressing against the familiar door. You knocked lightly before pushing it open. The dim light from the hallway stretched across the bed, illuminating the sight of your mother and her new husband quickly pulling apart from under the sheets.

Amber gasped, her breath catching as she clutched the blanket to her chest. “Why aren’t you in bed?”