Chapter 26 - The Nightmares Nobody Could See
Sophia's nightmares began four nights after we brought her home.
At first, I thought she was simply having trouble adjusting after the frightening experience.
She woke once around midnight, crying for water.
Then again at two.
By the third night, she refused to sleep unless I sat beside her bed.
On the fourth night, she woke screaming.
"Don't take me! Please don't take me!"
I hurried into her room and found her tangled in her butterfly blanket, clutching the old white rabbit so tightly that its worn fabric had twisted beneath her fingers.
I sat beside her.
"Sophia, sweetheart. You're home."
She opened her eyes.
For a moment, she didn't seem to recognize me.
Then she threw herself into my arms.
"Grandma!"
I held her gently.
"I'm here."
"Is the lady coming back?"
I knew exactly which lady she meant.
"No one is coming to take you tonight," I said softly. "The doors are locked, and you're safe with me."
She trembled against my chest.
I wanted to promise that nothing frightening would ever happen again.
But after everything our family had endured, I understood the danger of promises no one could guarantee.
Instead, I stayed beside her until her breathing slowed.
The following morning, I called the pediatrician.
She referred us to Dr. Naomi Fletcher, a child psychologist experienced in helping young children recover from frightening events.
At our first appointment, Dr. Fletcher didn't ask Sophia to describe the kidnapping.
She invited her to play.
There were wooden animals, colorful blocks, puppets, and a miniature dollhouse.
Sophia spent twenty minutes arranging the little furniture.
Then she placed a tiny girl doll inside the bedroom.
She locked the toy door.
My heart tightened.
Dr. Fletcher watched calmly.
"What is the little girl thinking?" she asked.
Sophia stared at the doll.
"She wants her grandma."
I pressed my lips together.
"And what does she need?" Dr. Fletcher asked.
Sophia thought for a moment.
"A window."
The psychologist nodded.
"Why a window?"
"So she can see someone coming to help."
I turned away.
Tears filled my eyes.
There was something unbearable about hearing a four-year-old explain fear through a toy house.
After the session, Dr. Fletcher spoke with me privately.
She explained that Sophia's reactions were understandable after a frightening separation and that recovery might involve nightmares, clinginess, and temporary changes in behavior.
She recommended predictable routines, gentle reassurance, and continued support.
Most importantly, she encouraged me not to measure Sophia's progress by how quickly she stopped talking about what happened.
"Children recover at their own pace," she said.
I nodded.
"I just want her to be happy again."
"Then give her opportunities to feel safe, capable, and loved. Happiness will have room to return."
I carried those words home.
We established small rituals.
Every evening, Sophia helped check that her bedroom night-light worked.
We chose pajamas together.
We read two bedtime stories.
And before she went to sleep, she placed Captain Cinnamon beside the old rabbit on her pillow.
I also stopped pretending that I was unaffected.
One afternoon, Martha found me crying in the pantry.
I had been reaching for a jar of strawberry preserves when I remembered Sophia's empty place beside the face-painting tent.
The memory hit so suddenly that I couldn't breathe.
Martha stepped inside.
"Lauren?"
I wiped my face.
"I'm fine."
She gave me the look only a lifelong friend could give.
"No, you're not."
I tried to smile.
She took the jar from my hand and set it on the shelf.
"You don't have to be the strongest person in every room."
I leaned against the counter.
"I keep thinking about those two steps."
"What two steps?"
"The two steps I took away from Sophia."
My voice broke.
"If I'd stayed beside her..."
Martha wrapped her arms around me.
"Brenda chose to abduct that child. You didn't cause her crime."
"I know that."
"Knowing something and feeling it are different."
I began crying again.
Martha held me until the worst of it passed.
The following week, I arranged counseling for myself as well.
It felt strange after decades of being the person who comforted everyone else.
But I discovered that asking for help didn't make me weaker.
It made me more available to Sophia.
Meanwhile, Rachel continued attending counseling and her scheduled supervised visits.
Jason worked, studied, and fulfilled his probation obligations.
Neither of them demanded that Sophia recover quickly.
They learned to follow her lead.
One Saturday afternoon, Jason brought a small wooden toolbox he'd made at his training program.
Inside were harmless toy tools painted in bright colors.
Sophia examined them with fascination.
"Can I fix something?"
Jason smiled.
"Sure, peanut."
She pointed toward the dollhouse.
"The door."
My throat tightened.
Jason looked at me briefly.
Then he sat beside her.
"Okay. Let's fix the door."
Together, they removed the little bedroom door and replaced it with a curtain made from a scrap of yellow fabric.
Sophia opened and closed it several times.
Then she smiled.
"Now the girl can get out."
Jason blinked rapidly.
"Yes, sweetheart."
He kissed the top of her head.
"She can."
That evening, Sophia fell asleep without asking me to remain beside her bed.
I stood in the doorway, listening to her peaceful breathing.
For the first time since the abduction, I allowed myself to imagine that our family could truly recover.
Not by forgetting.
Not by pretending nothing had happened.
But by building a life in which fear no longer made every decision.
I walked downstairs, made a cup of tea, and opened Harold's old photo album.
On the first page was a picture of us standing outside our newly purchased house thirty years earlier.
We looked so young.
So hopeful.
I touched his smiling face.
"We're still here, Harold," I whispered.
May you like
Then I looked toward the staircase.
"And we're going to be okay."
