My name is Mrs. Margaret, and I am currently in my early sixties. Since my husband died ten years ago, I have been living alone in a little Kansas town.
My biggest pride is my daughter, Helen. She is smart, elegant, and married to Daniel, a thoughtful and compassionate man. The news that Helen was expecting filled my heart with happiness. Every day, I prayed for a safe delivery.
In order to assist in caring for my granddaughter, I packed up my belongings and moved from the country to their suburban home close to Dallas when she eventually gave birth to Nora. During those initial, priceless months of Nora’s life, their small, humble home quickly became my home.
In the beginning, life felt simple. I cooked breakfast, did the laundry, while Daniel worked long hours but always came back to help Helen with the baby. Helen’s health was still fragile, and her milk dried up early, so little Nora depended on formula. Watching her tiny eyes blinking up at me, I felt both joy and worry. But only a few weeks after I arrived, something strange began to happen.
Night after night, around two or three in the morning, I would hear the faint sound of the refrigerator door creaking open.
