“We received a report,” she said, voice flat, as she opened the fridge and stared at the half‑empty milk carton.
I felt the weight of the folder under my arm shift, the guardianship papers suddenly fragile.
“Who filed it?” I asked, trying to keep my tone steady.
She didn’t answer, just scribbled something on a pad, then turned to the kitchen door.
Every visit after that was the same: a clipboard, a questionnaire, the same cold stare.
“How often does she eat?” the woman asked, glancing at my sister, who sat on the couch rubbing her knees.
“Three times a day,” I replied, and the caseworker’s eyes flicked to the window, where the curtains were drawn tight.
She left with a sigh, the door closing behind her like a judge’s gavel.
By the end of the week, the visits were daily, then every other night, then every night.
Each time the kitchen filled with the smell of disinfectant and the rustle of paper.
My sister grew quiet, her eyes darting to the hallway, her fingers tracing the seam of the carpet.
She stopped asking me for stories before bedtime; instead she stared at the ceiling, breathing shallow.
One afternoon, after a caseworker had left a stack of brochures on the table, I heard her whisper, “They’re watching.”
She didn’t finish the sentence, and I felt the first crack in the armor I’d built around her.
When I asked what she meant, she only shook her head, eyes wide, as if the very thought was too heavy.
That night, the house felt too still, the ticking clock louder than any argument.
I lay awake, counting the footsteps I heard outside the bedroom door, wondering how many more complaints would come.
Under the Window
The night was unusually warm, the summer air slipping through the cracked window.
She was already there, knees pulled to her chest, whispering like the wind.
“You know why the window is open?” she asked, voice barely louder than a breath.
I shook my head, the darkness swallowing my answer.
“Aunt Marla,” she said, “she’s been watching us from the garden.”
My heart hammered; I could almost see the silhouette she described, lingering near the oak tree.
She leaned closer, eyes shining in the moonlight, “She’s been taking notes, writing something down.”
“What?” I pressed, the panic rising like a tide.
She swallowed, then whispered, “She wants to put me in a boarding school. A place far from here.”
I felt the floor tilt under my feet; the thought of losing her again was unbearable.
“Why would she do that?” I asked, voice cracking.
She blinked, tears catching the light, “She says it’s for my ‘future,’ but… I think she wants to keep us from finding out what she’s doing.”
Behind us, the window rattled as a gust brushed the glass, as if confirming her words.
“We have to stop her,” I said, fists clenched, the weight of the guardianship papers suddenly crushing my palm.
She nodded, but her eyes were haunted, a secret deeper than the night.
“She’s been watching us for weeks,” she whispered, “and tonight she’ll come to take me.”
My breath caught, the world narrowing to the space between us and the open window.
“What do we do?” I asked, the terror raw in my throat.
She stared into the darkness, her voice barely audible, “We have to hide the truth before she… before she—”
The sudden rustle of leaves outside sharpened my senses; I realized the window was no longer just a hole in the wall.
