My name is Ana Reyes.
Our family lives in a quiet two-story house in a subdivision in Quezon City—a place that is bright and lively during the day, but at night becomes so silent it feels like you could hear the ticking of the clock from the living room.
My husband and I have only one child—Mika, eight years old.
From the beginning, we decided that we would have only one child.
Not because we were selfish.
Not because we were afraid of hardship.
But because we wanted to give her everything we possibly could.
The house—bought after more than ten years of saving—was one of the biggest investments of our lives. We opened Mika’s
educational fund when she was still a baby. In my mind, I was already planning her college years before she even learned how to read properly.
More than anything else, I wanted her to learn independence.
A child taught to sleep alone
When Mika was still in preschool, I trained her to sleep in her own room.
Not because I didn’t love her.
On the contrary—I loved her enough to understand this: a child will not grow strong if she always clings to her parents.
Mika’s room was the neatest and most beautiful in the house.
— A wide bed with a high-quality mattress we bought at the mall
— Shelves filled with storybooks, comics, and legends
— Stuffed toys carefully arranged
— A night light with a soft, yellow glow
Every night, I would read her a story, kiss her on the forehead, and then turn off the light.
Mika was never afraid to sleep alone.
Until… one morning.
“Mom, my bed felt cramped last night…”
That morning, while I was preparing breakfast, Mika had just finished brushing her teeth. She came over, hugged my waist, and spoke softly, still sleepy:
“Mom… I didn’t sleep well last night.”
I smiled and faced her.
“Why, sweetheart?”
She frowned, as if thinking, then answered:
“It felt like… my bed was too cramped.”
I laughed.
“Your bed is huge, and you’re the only one sleeping there. How could it be cramped? Maybe you just left your toys on it?”
She shook her head.
“No, Mom. My bed was neat.”
I stroked her head, assuming it was just a simple child’s complaint.
But I was wrong.
Words that repeated and brought fear
Two days passed.
Then three.
Then an entire week.
Every morning, Mika said the same things:
“Mom, I can’t sleep.”
“It feels like my bed got smaller.”
“It feels like someone is pushing me to the edge.”
One morning, she asked something that stopped my heart:
“Mom… did you come into my room last night?”
I knelt down and looked her in the eyes.
“No. Why did you ask?”
Mika hesitated before answering:
“Because… it felt like someone was sleeping beside me.”
I forced a laugh and kept my voice calm.
“You probably just had a dream. Mom was sleeping next to Dad all night.”
But from that moment on…
I never slept peacefully again.
The decision to install a camera
At first, I thought Mika was just having nightmares.
But as a mother, I could feel the fear in her eyes.
I talked to my husband—Ramon, a busy doctor at a public hospital who often came home after midnight because of long shifts.
After listening, he only smiled slightly.
“Children have vivid imaginations. Our house is safe… nothing bad will happen.”
I didn’t argue anymore.
Instead, I installed a camera.
A small, almost unnoticeable CCTV in the corner of the ceiling in Mika’s room.
Not to spy on her—but to calm myself.
That night, Mika slept soundly.
The bed was neat.
No mess.
No one taking up space.
I let out a sigh of relief.
Until two in the morning.
2 A.M. — The moment I will never forget
I woke up thirsty.
As I passed through the living room, I automatically opened the live feed from the camera on my phone—just to make sure everything was fine.
And there…
My entire body went cold.
On the screen, the door to Mika’s room slowly opened.
Someone entered.
Thin body.
Pale skin and gray hair.
Slow, trembling steps.
I covered my mouth as my heart started pounding when I finally realized:
It was Lola Nena.
Ramon’s mother.
She walked straight to Mika’s bed.
Carefully lifted the blanket.
And then…
she lay down beside her granddaughter.
As if it were her own bed.
Mika shifted slightly, pushed toward the edge of the mattress. She frowned in her sleep but didn’t wake up.
And I…
I cried silently.
A mother who spent her entire life for her child
Lola Nena was seventy-eight years old.
She became a widow when Ramon was only seven.
For more than forty years, she never remarried.
She worked wherever she could:
— House cleaner
— Laundry woman
— Selling rice porridge and native snacks at dawn
All of that—so she could raise her son and send him to school until he became a doctor.
Ramon once told me that when he was young, there were days when his mother ate only bread, while he had fish or meat for his meal.
When Ramon was in college, Lola Nena still sent envelopes—containing a small amount of money, carefully folded.
For herself…
She lived simply, with almost nothing left for her own needs.
The silent pain of old age
In recent years, we noticed Lola Nena slowly changing.
— Once, she got lost and cried at a waiting shed until midnight.
— Once, while eating, she suddenly looked up and asked, “Who are you?”
— Sometimes, she called me by the name of her father’s long-deceased wife.
We took her to the doctor.
His voice was gentle when he said:
“Early-stage Alzheimer’s.”
But we never imagined she would wander around the house at night.
And we certainly never imagined…
That she would lie down in her granddaughter’s bed.
When the adults finally woke up
The next day, I showed the video to Ramon.
He was silent for a long time.
And then…
he broke down.
“Maybe she remembers the times when I was still a child…”
He tightly held my hand.
“This is my fault. I drowned myself in work… and forgot that my mother was slowly fading.”
In the nights that followed, Mika slept beside us.
And Lola Nena…
We didn’t blame her.
We loved her even more.
The decision that changed everything
We decided to:
— Carefully close Mika’s bedroom door every night
— Install motion sensors throughout the house
— And most importantly: never let Lola Nena sleep alone
We moved her to a room closer to ours.
Every night, I sit beside her.
I talk to her.
I listen to her memories.
I help her feel safe.
Because sometimes, the elderly don’t need medicine.
They just need to feel that they still have a family to come home to.
THE END
My child’s bed was never really small.
The truth is…
It was an old woman—
alone, lost in her own memories—
who was searching for the warmth of a child she once cared for and loved with her entire life.
