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.

The authorities arrived within minutes, sweeping the house and securing the area. The man, as it turned out, was a homeless drifter who had somehow found a way into our attic through an old crawl space, sneaking down at night to steal food. The thought made me sick. I held Tia close as the officers reassured me he had been caught a few blocks away. That night, as I tucked her into my bed, I whispered, “I’m so sorry, baby. You were right all along.” She simply buried her face in my chest and whispered back, “I told you, Mommy.” And I knew, from that moment on, I would always listen.