Two years after my wife passed, I thought I was finally doing the right thing. For myself, and for my five-year-old daughter, Sophie. Grief had hollowed us out, and Amelia felt like light returning to a dark house. She was gentle, attentive, patient. When we moved into her large inherited home, it felt like a fresh start. Sophie seemed shy around her but never afraid. Or so I believed.

Then I came back from a week-long business trip.

Sophie ran into my arms, clinging to me harder than usual. Her little body trembled. When I bent down, she whispered words that made my chest tighten instantly: “Daddy… my new mom is different when you’re gone.” I asked her what she meant, keeping my voice calm while panic bloomed inside me. She told me Amelia locked herself in the attic at night. That she heard strange noises. That Amelia wouldn’t let her inside. And quietly, almost guiltily, she added that Amelia had been “mean.”

At first, it sounded small. Cleaning her room alone. No ice cream even when she behaved. But Sophie had never complained before. And the attic… that stayed with me. I’d noticed Amelia disappearing up there sometimes, always brushing it off as private space. Grief, I assumed. We all cope differently. But that night, I couldn’t sleep. Around midnight, I heard soft footsteps on the stairs. Amelia. Heading up.