My daughter Ivy never cried at night, yet I kept hearing faint rustling from her nursery. Each time I checked, she was peaceful, and Judson insisted it was the house settling.

Still, I bought a high-end baby monitor for peace of mind. The first night, I saw a shadow reach into her crib—then vanish.

I raced in to find Ivy crying, a warm bottle lying on the floor. Judson brushed it off as my imagination or sleepwalking, but my gut told me otherwise.

Then I noticed the window slightly open—and hanging from it, a cracked silver heart pendant I hadn’t seen in years. I knew exactly whose it was.

The next morning, I confronted my estranged mother. She admitted sneaking in to hold Ivy, revealing a buried truth: my father and Aunt Jessie had conspired to have her committed, keeping her from me for years. Judson had discovered the truth and quietly let her in at night until he could prove it. I felt betrayed—and yet, shaken.

I left angry, but on the drive home, the anger softened. My mother’s love for Ivy was real, and for the first time in years, I could see her as more than the ghost of my past. Maybe we could heal. Ivy would have a grandmother who loved her, and I—a mother I could finally love back.