him “Papa Bear,” and she would wait by the front porch every afternoon at 5:00 PM, watching for his rusted Ford pickup to turn the corner.
For the first time since my life had imploded, I let down my guard. I let myself believe in the domestic fantasy. I thought: Maybe this is what a safe home feels like. Maybe the nightmares are finally over.
I was a fool.
Act II: The Erosion of Midnight Peace
Emma turned seven this spring, and with her seventh year came a sharp, terrifying regression.
It started subtly. A sudden aversion to the dark. Then came the sleepwalking. I would wake up at 2:00 AM to the sound of bare feet padding down the hallway, only to find Emma standing rigidly at the top of the basement stairs, her eyes wide, staring down into the pitch-black void as
