My name is Rachel. I work as a project manager at a fast-paced IT company in Chicago. Every morning, I leave my suburban home by seven and don’t get back until after eight at night; sometimes, it’s past nine. I check emails on the commuter train, and by the time I arrive at the office, my head is already full of work.
My husband, Mark, is a construction site supervisor. His schedule is even more irregular than mine. He leaves home at five in the morning and often doesn’t return until after eleven at night, depending on how the construction is progressing. Sometimes, it’s one in the morning. Living like ships passing in the night had become normal for us.
And then there’s our daughter, Chloe. She’s fifteen, tall with chestnut hair like mine. Every morning, she puts on her school uniform properly and leaves through the front door with a smile. Her “I’m off!” is cheerful, and I always took comfort in that. Watching her walk away to school, I never doubted she was doing well.
The three of us only saw each other on weekends, and even then, just at Saturday morning breakfast. On Sundays, Mark would sleep, exhausted, until past noon. I’d tackle the accumulated housework, and Chloe would hole up in her room. Even when we sat around the table, our conversations were surprisingly superficial.
“How’s school?” I’d ask.
Chloe would answer, “Fine.”
When Mark asked, “How are your grades?” Chloe would briefly reply, “They’re okay.”
No one asked anything deeper. No one talked about anything deeper. I thought that was fine. Teenagers want distance from their parents, and we were respecting Chloe’s privacy. I believed that working hard was how I protected my family. My own mother was a homemaker who lived dependent on my father’s income. I know how much she struggled when Dad got sick and couldn’t work anymore. That’s why I became financially independent, and I want my daughter to become an independent woman, too. That had become my constant refrain.
Work was going well. I’d been assigned a major project and was leading a team to produce results. My evaluation at the company was high, and there was talk of a promotion. By the time I got home, I’d be exhausted, but there was also a sense of fulfillment in it. I had this pride that I was earning for my family.
But lately, something felt slightly off. Chloe’s smile seemed more rigid than before. In the morning, when I’d see her off with, “Have a good day,” her eyes looked a little vacant. But I told myself it was just the instability typical of adolescence, natural for a fifteen-year-old girl.
I hardly ever went into her room. Under the pretense of respecting her privacy, maybe I was actually avoiding stepping into my daughter’s inner world. Even when delivering laundry, I’d just knock on the door and leave it at the entrance. I didn’t try to know what her room looked like inside. What my daughter was thinking, I didn’t try to know.
Mark was the same. He had almost no time to see our daughter, just catching a glimpse on weekends, too exhausted to even think of consulting me about Chloe. The family lived in separate timelines. Living under the same roof, we were scattered. Still, I thought this was enough. Chloe went to school every morning. Her grades weren’t bad. There didn’t seem to be any problems, at least not to my eyes.
Until that day when I received a complaint from a neighbor.
The first complaint came a week ago. When I got home after eight, as usual, my neighbor Carol was standing in front of my door with her arms crossed. She lives alone, and we’d exchange greetings occasionally. That was about it.
“There’s noise coming from your place during the day,” Carol said right off the bat. I was tired, and it took me a moment to understand what she meant.
“Noise?” I asked, and she nodded. “Noise from the second floor. I thought someone might be there.”
“No one should be there,” I answered. “My daughter goes to school. My husband and I are at work. No one’s home during the day. Maybe you’re imagining it.” Carol looked suspicious but muttered, “Perhaps,” and left.
That night, I called my husband to discuss it. Mark was at the construction site, and I could hear the surrounding noise. “The neighbor said something strange—that there’s noise during the day. But no one should be there, right?”
“She’s probably tired,” Mark replied without much interest. “She lives alone. Maybe she’s lonely. If it were a burglar, something would have been stolen.”
That made sense. I stopped worrying about it and threw myself back into work the next day. The deadline for the major project was approaching. The client’s demands were strict, and team members were exhausted. One of my subordinates made repeated mistakes, and I was swamped trying to cover for them. I worked until near the last train every day, and when I got home, I’d shower and collapse into sleep. Home matters were completely put on the back burner.
Three days ago, Carol was waiting at the door again. “There really is noise during the day,” she said, her tone more certain than before. “Someone’s there.”
“A burglar?” I asked. “Should I call the police?”
“I don’t know,” Carol shook her head. “But you should be careful. I feel like something strange is happening.”
I felt a little anxious, but I was busy with work, and that anxiety soon faded. There were meetings, presentation preparations, and negotiations with clients. I had no time to think about home. Around that time, I didn’t notice that Chloe seemed a bit strange at breakfast. Or maybe I did notice but pretended not to. Chloe’s hand holding her toast was trembling slightly, but I just checked emails on my smartphone and absently said, “Do your best today.” Chloe’s response was always a small, “Yeah,” a brief word, but I didn’t pay attention to it. Everyone’s sleepy in the morning.
I’d noticed the faint dark circles under Chloe’s eyes, too. “Are you staying up late?” I’d lightly caution, and Chloe would answer, “I’m fine.”
“Make sure you sleep,” I’d say, then leave the house. I didn’t probe any deeper.
And yesterday, there was a third complaint. When I got home, Carol was waiting in front of the door. This time, she was clearly angry. “Your place is noisy during the day,” she said, her voice loud, and I worried the neighbors might hear.
“No one should be there,” I answered, but my confidence was wavering.
“I heard screaming,” Carol said, “multiple times. A woman’s voice, like she was calling for help.”
I was speechless. Screaming? A woman’s voice? That couldn’t be.
“If you don’t believe me, go check for yourself,” Carol said flatly, then angrily returned to her own house.
That night, I sat alone in the living room. Mark hadn’t come home yet. I called his cell phone repeatedly, but he didn’t answer, probably at the construction site. I turned it over in my head. If it were a burglar, something would have been stolen, but there was nothing unusual in the house. A ghost? That was ridiculous. But screaming? A woman’s voice? Was someone breaking in? But why? Chloe was in her room; the door was closed, and I could hear music leaking out. Everything seemed normal. I thought about knocking to check on her but stopped. I felt disgusted with myself, like I was suspecting my daughter, but I couldn’t ignore it either. If Carol came to tell me three times, something was really happening. I couldn’t leave this alone.
I decided tomorrow, I’d check for myself.
The next morning, I got ready as usual, put on my suit, did my makeup, and grabbed my bag. Chloe was also dressed in her uniform, as usual, eating breakfast.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Have a good day,” Chloe answered. The usual smile, but that smile seemed somehow forced. It was the first time I felt that way.
I left the house in my car, but I didn’t head to the office. Instead, I parked at a supermarket parking lot three blocks away. I looked at the clock: 7:15. I decided to wait fifteen minutes, then return home through the back door without being seen by anyone to find out the truth. I turned off the engine and stared at the clock while sitting in my seat. My heart was pounding. I didn’t know what I would find, but I had to check—for my daughter’s sake, for my family’s sake.
The clock hands moved forward. It became 7:30. I got out of the car and started walking toward home. My hand was shaking as I unlocked the back door. I felt like I was sneaking into my own house. I quietly opened the door and went inside. The house was silent. Chloe should have already left for school; she always left at 7:30. No one should be there now. I quietly climbed the stairs, headed for the second-floor bedroom. When I opened the door, the room looked the same as always. The bed was neatly made, and morning light streamed in through the curtains.
I stared at the bed. I would hide here. I thought it was ridiculous—hiding under the bed in my own bedroom—but I couldn’t think of any other way. I got on my knees and slid under the bed. A dusty smell hit my nose. I felt a little guilty that the cleaning hadn’t been thorough. The space was tighter than I expected, making it hard to move. I lay on my side, looking up at the underside of the bed. It was suffocating, cramped, dark.
No one might come. Maybe Carol was mistaken. Then what was I doing? Missing work to wait under a bed for hours? How would I explain this to my boss? But I had no choice but to wait.
8:00. Nothing happened. The house was quiet, and all I could hear was my own breathing. My back started to hurt.
8:30. Still nothing. Maybe it was a mistake after all. But Carol had clearly said she heard screaming multiple times.
9:00. My feet were going numb. Could I really stay here for hours? I thought about getting out, crawling out from under the bed, heading to the office, returning to my normal daily life.
That’s when it happened. I heard the front door open.
My heart leaped. Someone had come in. It was the sound of unlocking with a key. Someone with a spare key. Not a burglar. Footsteps moved through the hallway, then climbed the stairs. One step, then another. Slow footsteps, not heavy, light steps. I held my breath. I thought my heartbeat was so loud the other person might hear it. My hands were shaking. Who was it? The bedroom door opened.
I saw feet. From under the bed, I could only see the person’s feet. They were wearing sneakers—white sneakers, a small size. A woman. The person stood in the room for a while. Then, the feet approached the bed. I heard the sound of someone sitting on the bed. The mattress sank, and the underside of the bed lowered slightly. The sense of confinement increased.
Silence. Then I heard sobbing. A woman was crying—small, stifled crying. I could feel her shoulders shaking through the bed. Who was it? The crying gradually got louder, as if she couldn’t hold it in anymore.
Then suddenly, a scream echoed through the room. “Stop it! Stop it!”
A woman’s desperate scream, just like Carol had said. A voice calling for help. Desperate. My body froze with fear. What was happening?
“Stop it! Please, stop it already!” The screaming continued. Then it turned to crying, intense crying. The bed shook in small tremors. I couldn’t move. Should I call out? Should I call the police? But my body wouldn’t obey. My head went blank with fear and confusion.
Eventually, the screaming stopped. The woman was breathing heavily, exhausted from crying. Then I heard a small voice.
“Mom, I’m sorry.”
At that moment, the world stopped. Had I heard wrong? What did she just say? Mom. Was she calling me? No way. But that voice… I’d heard it somewhere before. No, I heard it every day.
Chloe. It was my daughter’s voice.
My body froze. Chloe? Why was she here? School? Why wasn’t she at school? Why was she here crying? Questions swirled in my head, but I couldn’t make a sound. I just lay under the bed, feeling my daughter’s presence.
Chloe sat on the bed for a while. I occasionally heard her sobbing. Eventually, Chloe stood up. Footsteps left the room. The sound of going down the stairs. I could finally move, but my body was shaking, and I couldn’t crawl out from under the bed easily. When I finally got out, my knees were weak. It took time to stand up.
What was happening? I left the room and quietly descended the stairs without making noise. I could see the living room. I peeked carefully, and there was Chloe. She was sitting on the sofa, hugging her knees, curled up small, still wearing her uniform when she should have gone to school.
Should I call out to her? But what would I say?
Chloe suddenly stood up. I hid behind the wall. Chloe stood in front of the living room mirror, staring at her own face intently, as if confirming who she was. Then suddenly, she shouted at the mirror, “I won’t lose!” A strong voice, a voice full of determination. But the next moment, Chloe collapsed. She fell to her knees and started crying again.
I couldn’t watch anymore. I entered the living room. “Chloe,” I called her name.
Chloe turned around. Her face was a mess with tears. And the moment she saw me, the blood drained from her face. “Mom?” Chloe whispered. “Why are you here?” Her voice was trembling.
“What about school? Why are you home?” I asked the same thing. Chloe was at a loss for words. She opened her mouth and closed it, tried to say something, and swallowed her words. Tears streamed down her cheeks.
“The neighbor complained,” I said. “That there’s screaming during the day. She came to tell me three times. So I came to check.”
Chloe turned her face away, her shoulders trembling slightly.
“Sit on the sofa,” I said. Chloe slowly sat on the sofa. I sat next to her. There was a little distance between us. “How long have you not been going to school?” I asked.
“I go,” Chloe answered in a small voice.
“That’s a lie,” I said. “You’re here now. You should be in class.” Chloe bit her lip. “I go,” she repeated. “In the morning, I go to school.”
“And then?” I prompted.
After a long silence, Chloe finally spoke. “I go to the nurse’s office,” she said.
“And then?” I asked.
“I come back,” Chloe said in a whisper.
I gasped. “Come back? From school? Why?” I asked, but Chloe didn’t answer. She just hugged her knees and curled up small. I looked at my daughter, my daughter in her uniform, my daughter who goes to school with a smile every morning. But this daughter wasn’t going to school. She was going through the nurse’s office and coming back home.
“Bullying?” I said.
Chloe’s body stiffened. That reaction told me everything. “By whom?” I asked. Chloe didn’t answer. “Who’s bullying you?” I repeated.
“I can’t say,” Chloe said quietly.
“Why can’t you say?”
“Because if I tell, it’ll get worse,” Chloe answered, her voice shaking. “They’ll do worse things to me. So, I can’t say.”
I tried to put my hand on my daughter’s shoulder, but Chloe pulled away, a gesture that said she didn’t want to be touched. I withdrew my hand. “Did you talk to the school?” I asked. Chloe shook her head. “Why? If you tell a teacher, they should be able to do something.”
Chloe looked up, her eyes red and swollen. “Because telling a teacher is useless,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Because the person bullying me,” Chloe paused, “…is Mrs. Thompson’s daughter.”
I froze. Mrs. Thompson. Chloe’s homeroom teacher. “Your homeroom teacher,” I confirmed. Chloe nodded. “That’s why it’s useless to tell.”
I felt something inside me crumble with a sound. The homeroom teacher’s daughter was doing the bullying. And the school…
“Tell me everything,” I said, “from the beginning.”
Chloe was silent for a while but eventually began to speak slowly. The bullying started three months ago. At first, it was trivial things: her textbook would be hidden, mean things would be said to her. But Chloe endured it. She thought it would die down eventually, but it didn’t. It gradually escalated. Harassing letters were put in her locker. Thumbtacks were put in her shoes. When they passed in the hallway, mean things would be whispered to her.
Chloe consulted with her homeroom teacher, Mrs. Thompson. But the teacher didn’t believe her. “My daughter wouldn’t do such a thing,” she said. “It must be Chloe’s misunderstanding.”
Then the retaliation began. The ringleader of the bullying was Emma Thompson, the homeroom teacher’s daughter. Emma threatened Chloe, saying, “You told on me,” and she started writing mean things about Chloe on social media—that Chloe was a liar, that Chloe was trying to frame the teacher’s daughter. The classmates all sided with Emma. No one talked to Chloe anymore. Even when they passed in the hallway, no one would make eye contact with her. Chloe became isolated.
“Every day was painful,” Chloe said. “I was afraid to go to school, but I didn’t want to worry you. Mom is busy with work. Dad is tired, too. So I thought I’d handle it myself.” Chloe continued, “I thought I had to be strong. I had to endure it alone, but it was too much. So, every morning, I go to school just to be counted present. Then I go to the nurse’s office and say I don’t feel well. The nurse is kind and lets me rest. After a while, I sneak out through the back door. I come home and cry alone.”
By screaming, she was somehow keeping herself together. Chloe said if she didn’t scream, she felt like she’d fall apart.
As I listened to my daughter’s story, tears wouldn’t stop flowing. My daughter had been suffering this much, and I hadn’t noticed anything. Every morning, I’d send her off with a smile, but behind that smile, my daughter was suffering this much.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
Chloe looked at me. “I couldn’t tell you,” she said. “Mom always seemed so busy, always talking about work. I thought you didn’t have time to listen to my problems.”
“That’s not—” I was at a loss for words.
“Besides,” Chloe continued, “Mom always said, ‘Be an independent woman. Handle things yourself.’ So, I thought I should handle it myself. But I couldn’t.”
I collapsed to my knees. I put my hands on the floor and cried. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’m so sorry. I was wrong.” I thought working hard was how I protected my family. But what was truly important was listening to the voice of the daughter in front of me, noticing my daughter’s pain.
Chloe was crying, too. We both cried. For a long time, we just cried. Eventually, I moved closer to Chloe and embraced her. This time, Chloe didn’t refuse. Mother and daughter held each other and cried.
“I won’t leave you alone anymore,” I said. “I’ll definitely protect you. Mom will handle this.”
“But how?” Chloe asked. “The teacher and the school aren’t on my side. How?”
I looked at Chloe. “I’ll handle it,” I repeated. “I promise.”
I immediately took out my cell phone and called my husband. Mark answered right away. “Something terrible is happening,” I said. “Chloe is being bullied. Come home right away.”
Mark’s voice became tense. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll come home right now.”
Next, I called the company. My boss answered. “I’m taking time off,” I said.
My boss said in a surprised voice, “But the project…”
“My daughter is more important,” I said clearly.
“I see,” my boss said. “Understood. Take care of your family.”
I hung up and looked at Chloe. My daughter was staring at me. In her eyes, just a little bit, a light of hope had returned. “It’s okay,” I said. “Mom and Dad will protect you. You don’t have to fight alone anymore.”
Chloe nodded slightly. And for the first time, she showed a real smile.
The next day, I went to the school. Mark also took time off work and came with me. At the meeting in the principal’s office, the principal and homeroom teacher, Mrs. Thompson, were present.
“Do you have evidence?” Mrs. Thompson said in a cold voice.
“My daughter’s testimony,” I answered.
Mrs. Thompson laughed through her nose. “My daughter denies it. Isn’t it your daughter’s misunderstanding?”
The principal was also hesitant. He suggested we observe the situation a bit more, that we should handle it carefully. I looked at both of them and said, “Then I’ll file a report with the police.”
The principal’s expression changed. “That’s—”
And I continued, “I’ll also contact the local newspaper. The headline will read, ‘School Covers Up Bullying by Teacher’s Daughter.’”
Mrs. Thompson stood up. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s not a threat,” I answered calmly. “I’m just making the facts public. And I’ll also formally report to the board of education.”
The principal and Mrs. Thompson looked at each other. Mark nodded beside me. We were serious.
After that, the school hastily began an investigation. When they interviewed other students, multiple testimonies about Emma’s bullying came out. Social media posts were also submitted as evidence. Two weeks later, Emma transferred to another school. Mrs. Thompson was also transferred to another school. The school established a new anti-bullying team and began working on preventing recurrence.
Chloe started counseling. She had time to talk with a specialist once a week. It didn’t solve everything immediately, but little by little, her heart was healing. In her new class, Chloe made friends. At first, she was cautious, but she met kind kids. She wasn’t completely back to normal yet, but Chloe’s smile returned—a real smile.
I changed, too. I reduced my work and increased working from home. Every morning, I eat breakfast with Chloe. I stopped rushing out of the house. I made time to talk with my daughter. Every night, I made sure to listen to Chloe’s stories—what happened at school, about her friends, trivial things, stories I would have half-listened to before, I now listen to seriously. I realized there were things more important than work.
Mark changed, too. He negotiated with his boss to reduce late-night shifts and became able to eat dinner with the family three times a week. He consciously made time with Chloe. On days off, we started going out as a family of three.
One day, I ran into my neighbor, Carol. “I’m glad your daughter is doing better,” she said.
“Thank you,” I answered. “If you hadn’t told me, I might never have noticed.”
Carol smiled. “I thought I might be meddling, but I’m glad I said something.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” I said from my heart.
Three months passed. One Saturday afternoon, the three of us were in the living room. Chloe was talking about school, about her new friends, about a fun class. We were listening with smiles.
“Hey,” Chloe said. “Why don’t we all go on a picnic next weekend?”
“That sounds nice,” I answered.
“I’ll make sandwiches,” Mark said.
Chloe showed a truly happy smile. Seeing that smile, I thought, I believed that working hard was how I protected my family. But what was truly important was listening to the voices of the family in front of me, noticing each other’s pain, and supporting each other. That’s what a real family is.
Outside the window, spring sunlight was pouring down. Chloe’s laughter echoed through the living room. Mark was laughing, too. I was laughing, too. Finally, I felt like we’d become a real family.
