MY DAUGHTER WAS THRILLED TO HOLD HER NEWBORN SISTER—UNTIL SHE WHISPERED ONE WORD THAT SHOOK ME TO MY CORE
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She sat cross-legged at the edge of the hospital bed, her little hands trembling as they gently cradled the bundle in her lap. My oldest, Lina—just four years old, dressed in her favorite red suspenders and crooked ponytail—looked like she was holding the universe. Her eyes sparkled with something beyond excitement. Reverence, maybe. Or… something I couldn’t place.
The room smelled of antiseptic and warm skin. My body ached from the birth, stitches pulling with every breath, but all I could feel in that moment was gratitude. I had worried endlessly during the pregnancy—how would Lina adjust? Would she feel forgotten?
But there she was, beaming. Whispering soft “shh” sounds. Rocking just slightly. Everything seemed perfect.
Then, she leaned forward. Her face nearly touching her newborn sister’s.
And she whispered, “Now I have someone.”
I smiled through tears. “Someone to what, baby?”
She didn’t look up. Still watching the baby, still swaying.
“To keep the secrets with,” she whispered.
I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
“Secrets?” I asked, trying to sound calm.
She finally looked up at me then—eyes wide, too knowing, too old. She nodded slowly, her voice clear now.
“Like the ones I don’t tell Daddy.”
And before I could speak, before I could push the panic down or reach for her tiny hand, she leaned in again and whispered something else.
Something that made the heart monitor skip a beat.
Something that made the nurse in the doorway freeze.
After giving birth to my second daughter, Elsie, I thought we were settling into a peaceful new chapter. Our eldest, Lina, seemed thrilled to become a big sister. But then she whispered something chilling to the newborn: “Now I have someone to keep the secrets with.” At first, I brushed it off as childhood imagination—until she kept making odd comments about monsters and rules about not telling Daddy.
Over time, Lina described a shadowy, faceless figure that only came when her father wasn’t home. A drawing she made showed the “monster” looming in our kitchen, with the words “Don’t let him take her.” She later hid in the shed with Elsie, convinced the monster was coming to take her sister. Alarmed, we took her to a child psychologist, who found signs of trauma.
When I gently asked Lina if the monster reminded her of anyone, she said, “He smells like Daddy.” It turned out James, my husband, had been drinking and losing his temper with Lina when I wasn’t home—yelling, slamming doors, even grabbing her once in anger. Her fear had twisted him into something terrifying in her young mind.
James left and got help. Lina began therapy. Slowly, the drawings stopped, and she laughed again. One night, she told me, “I don’t need to keep secrets anymore.” That’s when I knew real healing had begun. Monsters can be real—but they can also be helped, changed, and left behind.
