That Friday night, after putting Tia to bed, I decided to stay up a little later, scrolling through my phone in the living room. The house was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the wooden floors. Just as I was about to turn in for the night, a noise echoed from Tia’s room—a soft rustling, followed by what sounded like whispering. My heart lurched. It wasn’t the usual settling of the house or the wind outside. This was different.

Summoning my courage, I grabbed the baseball bat I kept by the door and tiptoed down the hallway. As I reached Tia’s room, I saw her lying still under the covers, her eyes squeezed shut. Her tiny hands clutched her teddy bear tightly. My pulse pounded as I turned toward the closet. The door was slightly ajar, just enough to see movement inside. My breath caught in my throat. Swallowing my fear, I gripped the bat and yanked the door open.

There, crouched among Tia’s dresses and stuffed animals, was a man—a disheveled, wild-eyed man who reeked of sweat and desperation. He scrambled backward, shielding his face from the light. I screamed, instinctively raising the bat, but before I could swing, he bolted forward, shoving past me with terrifying force. I stumbled, catching myself against the wall as he sprinted out of the room. Shaking, I ran to Tia and pulled her into my arms before grabbing my phone to call the police.