My neighbor is a widower, living alone. Recently, every time I saw him at the gate, he would always say things that made me uneasy.
“My daughter… she’s often at home these past few days.”
I forced a smile.
“You must be mistaken. She’s at school now.”
But he shook his head, firmly:
“No mistake. I saw her standing by the window, looking down at the street.”
Those words stayed in my mind for days.
My daughter is ten years old. She is kind, attends school regularly, and has never skipped a day. The teachers reported nothing unusual. Yet the look in our neighbor’s eyes that day… it didn’t seem like a joke.
The next day, I decided to pretend I was going to work.
In the morning, I put on my jacket, grabbed my bag, and rode my bicycle out the gate as usual. I waited a few minutes, then returned through the back door. The house was silent. My daughter had “already gone to school.”
I went into her room, my heart pounding.
Then… I crawled under her bed.
The space was cramped, and the dust coated my nose. I held my breath and glanced at the clock.
8:15.
Right on time for her first class.
A few minutes felt like an hour.
Then I heard the front door open.
So soft.
So familiar.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Soft. Unhurried.
My heart pounded. I bit my lip to keep from making a sound.
The bedroom door opened.
From the gap under the bed, I saw… her shoes.
She entered.
Still in her school uniform.
Her backpack still on her shoulders.
I almost jumped up to call her name.
But then… another pair of shoes followed.
Adult shoes.
For a man.
The man stood right in front of my daughter’s study desk. All I could see was the hem of his pants and a rough hand resting on her shoulder.
A deep, low male voice said:
“I’m keeping you home today. Like before.”
My daughter didn’t answer. She just nodded.
The man bent down, placed a stack of printed papers on the desk, and spoke in a monotone voice, as if reading from a script:
“Finish this. Remember… don’t tell your mother.”
I felt my blood freeze.
The man left. The door closed.
My daughter sat at her desk. She didn’t cry. She didn’t shake.
She just opened her bag and took out… another phone — not the one I bought her.
The screen lit up. A video call started.
On the screen was another man, well-built, wearing glasses.
“Let’s begin.”
My daughter held a pen. With her small hands, she carefully wrote each line according to the instructions on the screen.
I clearly saw the title on the paper:
“FAMILY REPORT – DAILY SCHEDULE – MOM’S TIME AT HOME”
I don’t remember how I crawled out from under the bed.
I only remember that when I turned on the light, my daughter looked back —
her face pale.
“Tell me, Mom,” I whispered, my voice breaking,
“who told you to do this?”
My daughter cried.
For the first time in a long while.
She hugged me tightly.
“They said… if I didn’t do it, they would kick Mom out of the house.”
Later, I learned:
It was a scam, exploiting children in the neighborhood to gather information about wealthy families.
And my neighbor — whom I once thought was just nosy —
was the only one who suspected something was wrong.
Some days, the truth isn’t found at school…
but right under your own roof.
And sometimes,
a single day of delay
means you no longer have the chance to crawl under the bed and uncover the reason.