Our daughter Lily had just turned four. Daniel and I delayed daycare as long as we could, but with both of us working full time, we eventually had no choice. Margaret helped for a while, but I didn’t want to rely on her forever.

A friend recommended a small home daycare run by a woman named Anna. She only cared for three children, had security cameras installed, and cooked fresh meals daily. When I visited, the house smelled clean and comforting, like warm food and laundry detergent.

Anna herself seemed kind and attentive—the type who crouches down to speak to children at eye level.

For the first week, I checked the camera feed during the day. Lily colored at a small table. Anna moved calmly around the house. The other kids seemed happy. Sometimes I arrived late to pick Lily up, and Anna never complained—she even fed her dinner.

Everything seemed safe.

Then one afternoon, driving home, Lily looked out the car window and said casually:

“Mommy, there’s a girl at teacher’s house who looks just like me.”

I chuckled. “Really? How?”

“She has my eyes and nose,” Lily said seriously. “Teacher said we look exactly the same.”

Kids say strange things all the time, so I brushed it off.

But Lily kept mentioning the girl.

“She’s teacher’s daughter,” Lily explained one day. “She cries a lot and always wants to be held.”

Something in my stomach tightened.

Not fear.

Just discomfort.

That night I told Daniel.

“Lily says there’s a girl at daycare who looks like her.”

He shrugged while washing dishes. “Kids imagine things.”

I tried to believe that.

But Lily kept talking about the girl.

Again and again.