Life had been chaotic lately, juggling work and three young kids. My husband suggested hiring a babysitter, and Emma seemed like a godsend—great with the kids, tidy, even helpful with meals. Everything felt perfect. Until yesterday.
Coming home early to surprise my family, I found the house unusually quiet. Emma appeared, dripping wet, clutching a towel, and stammered about cleaning up after a juice spill.
Then my husband walked in, brushing off my concern with an unnerving casualness.
“It’s just a shower,” he said, defending Emma’s use of our bathroom. His dismissiveness sent chills down my spine. I sent Emma to check on the kids and confronted him, but he insisted I was overreacting.
I retreated to my car, overwhelmed by suspicion. Was I imagining things, or was this a sign of something deeper? My once-safe home now felt unsettlingly foreign.
