I was sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, leaning against several pillows. My hands were still trembling slightly after the birth. On the lap of my four-year-old daughter Lisa lay the tiny body of her baby sister. Lisa was wearing her favorite red jumpsuit, and her hair was tied into a slightly messy ponytail. She held the baby carefully, almost reverently, as if she were holding something incredibly precious.

There was a strange glow in her eyes. It wasn’t just childish excitement. There was also an unusual seriousness in her expression—something far too mature for a child her age.

The room smelled of antiseptic and the soft warmth of a newborn’s skin. With every breath I felt overwhelming gratitude. Throughout my entire pregnancy I had worried about only one thing: how Lisa would react to the arrival of her little sister. Would she feel jealous? Would she feel replaced or forgotten?

But when I saw how gently she rocked the baby and whispered a soft “shhh,” I thought all my fears had been unnecessary.

Then Lisa leaned closer to the baby’s face and whispered quietly:

“Now I have someone.”

I smiled softly.

“Someone for what, sweetheart?” I asked.

She kept looking at the baby’s tiny face and gently stroked her little hand.

“Someone to keep secrets with.”

A chill ran down my spine.

“What kind of secrets, Lisa?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

She looked up at me. Her expression was suddenly very serious—far too serious for a four-year-old. She slowly nodded and said clearly:

“The kind I don’t tell Daddy.”

For a moment I didn’t know what to say. I reached out to take her hand, but she had already leaned back toward the baby. Then she whispered another sentence.

A sentence that made the heart monitor beside my bed beep sharply.

The nurse standing in the doorway froze.

Lisa whispered:

“If Daddy gets angry again… we won’t tell him anything, okay?”

For a moment it felt like the air had left my lungs.

“Lisa…” I said quietly. “Why would you say that?”

She looked at me calmly.

“Because it will be our secret.”

I tried to convince myself that children sometimes say strange things. Maybe she had heard something at preschool. Maybe she was just imagining things.

But something in her voice didn’t sound like imagination.

“What secret?” I asked carefully.

Lisa gently stroked the baby’s tiny hand.

“Sometimes Daddy talks to himself at night.”

I frowned slightly.

“What does he talk about?”

She shrugged.

“He says that soon everything will change.”

The nurse tried to ease the tension.

“Children often have very vivid imaginations,” she said gently.

But Lisa immediately shook her head.

“I’m not making it up.”

Then she leaned closer to the baby again and whispered:

“I’ll explain everything to you later.”

At that exact moment, the door to the room slowly opened.

My husband stood in the doorway.

He was smiling.

But suddenly that smile seemed strange to me—too tight, almost forced.

“How are my girls doing?” he asked.

Lisa immediately fell silent and held the baby a little tighter.

“Careful, Lisa,” I said quickly. “Give the baby to Mommy.”

She obeyed, but she didn’t take her eyes off her father.

My husband stepped closer to the bed.

“So, have you two already met?” he asked with a smile.

Lisa nodded.

Then she said a sentence that made my heart start pounding.

“Daddy, I already told her.”

My husband stopped.

“Told her what?”

Lisa looked at him for a few seconds before answering quietly:

“What you say at night.”

For a split second, his smile disappeared.

Just for a moment.

Then he laughed lightly.

“Ah, children and their imaginations…”

But in that moment a memory suddenly flashed through my mind.

A few weeks earlier, I had woken up in the middle of the night feeling thirsty. I heard my husband talking in the kitchen.

I assumed he was on the phone.

But when I walked out of the bedroom, he was standing there alone.

There was no phone in his hands.

He simply said he had been thinking out loud.

At the time, I didn’t pay much attention to it.

But now, looking at the serious expression on my four-year-old daughter’s face, I felt real fear for the first time.

And just then, Lisa leaned toward her baby sister again and whispered words that I heard perfectly clearly:

“Don’t be scared. If we have to… we’ll hide from him together.”