An eight-year-old girl sleeps alone, yet every morning she complains that her bed feels “too cramped.” When her mother finally checked the CCTV footage around two in the morning, she sat down and silently cried.

Ever since Mika was still in preschool, I had trained her to sleep in her own room. It was never because I lacked love for her—on the contrary, I believed that loving a child also meant teaching her independence. I wanted her to grow strong, confident, and capable of standing on her own, instead of always clinging to the arms of adults for comfort.

Mika’s bedroom was the most beautiful room in our house. It had a wide bed large enough for two people, fitted with an expensive orthopedic mattress we bought from a mall in Quezon City. A tall bookshelf lined one wall, filled with comics, folktales, and children’s legends. Her stuffed toys were neatly arranged every night, and a soft yellow night light gently illuminated the room, making it warm and comforting rather than dark or frightening.

Every evening followed the same routine. I would sit beside her, read her a story, kiss her forehead, remind her that I loved her, and then turn off the light. Mika had never been afraid to sleep alone. She never cried, never asked to sleep in our bed, and never showed signs of anxiety—until one morning, when everything changed.

I was preparing breakfast—fried rice and eggs—when Mika finished brushing her teeth and ran toward me. She hugged my waist tightly, her movements slow and heavy, and spoke in a sleepy voice. “Mom… I didn’t sleep well last night.” I smiled, thinking she was simply tired, and asked her why. She frowned, thought for a moment, then answered quietly, “It feels like the bed is too small.”

I laughed, genuinely amused. Her bed was large, and she was the only one sleeping there. I suggested she might have left too many toys on it. But she shook her head. “No, Mom. My bed is neat.” I stroked her hair and dismissed it as a child’s imagination, never suspecting what would follow.

Two days passed, then three, then an entire week. Every morning, Mika repeated the same complaints. She said she couldn’t sleep, that the bed felt cramped, that something kept pushing her toward the edge. Then one day, she asked a question that made my hands tremble. “Mom… did you come into my room last night?”

I knelt down and looked straight into her eyes, answering honestly that I had not. She hesitated, then whispered, “Because it felt like someone was sleeping beside me.” I forced a calm smile and told her it must have been a dream. I said that Mommy was sleeping next to Daddy all night. But from that moment on, I never slept peacefully again.

As a mother, I could see the fear in her eyes. It wasn’t playful or exaggerated. Studies by the American Academy of Pediatrics note that persistent sleep disturbances in children are often linked to emotional stress or perceived threats, even when the environment appears safe. Mika’s fear felt real.

I told my husband, Ramon, an overworked doctor at the city hospital who often came home late at night. After listening, he laughed it off, saying children have vivid imaginations and that our house was secure. Research from the National Sleep Foundation does acknowledge that children may experience sleep-related hallucinations during development, but Mika’s consistency worried me.

Instead of arguing, I installed a small CCTV camera in the corner of her bedroom ceiling. Not to spy on her—but to reassure myself. That night, Mika slept peacefully. The bed was tidy, no toys scattered, no visible movement. I finally allowed myself to relax.

Until two in the morning.

I woke up thirsty and passed through the living room. Without thinking, I opened my phone and checked the live feed from Mika’s room, just to make sure everything was fine. And in that moment, my entire body went cold. My legs weakened, my breath caught in my throat, and I sat down as tears silently streamed down my face.

Because the camera showed something no mother should ever have to see.