My daughter’s school flagged a “concerning drawing” Ayla made: me, her, and a faceless woman she said tucked her in at night. I laughed it off, blaming my late hospital shifts after her father’s absence. But a dark hair—unlike our blonde locks—on her pillow spooked me. I changed the locks and installed a nanny cam; nothing appeared. Then, a note in Ayla’s overalls read, “She misses you. She sings when you cry.” Ayla claimed “the lady” wrote it. Police found no evidence, suggesting imagination.
Coming home early one night, I found my sister Sanvi in Ayla’s room. Using a forgotten key, she’d been sneaking in to comfort Ayla, seeing my exhaustion but respecting my pride. Angry yet relieved, I learned Ayla’s notes mirrored my stress. Sanvi’s secret help turned open, strengthening us. A new drawing showed us three—smiling, no faceless figures. Love, I realized, sometimes arrives unannounced. Sanvi’s quiet care taught me to embrace help, turning shadows into family.
