Fear settled deep in my stomach. What if one night, she tried to open the door?

I told Liam I couldn’t stay unless she got help. He agreed.

We took her to a psychiatrist in Cambridge a few days later. Margaret sat stiffly, hands folded, eyes downcast.

We explained everything — the knocking, the key, the staring.

The doctor asked gently, “Margaret, what do you believe is happening at night?”

Her voice quivered.

“I have to keep him safe,” she whispered. “He’ll come back. I can’t lose my son again.”

Later, the doctor told us the truth.

Thirty years ago, when Margaret lived in upstate New York with her husband, an intruder broke into their home. Her husband tried to confront him — and didn’t survive.

Ever since, she had lived in terror that the same danger would return.

When I entered Liam’s life, her trauma confused me with that old threat.

She didn’t hate me — her mind simply misread me as another stranger who could “take her son away.”

Guilt twisted in my chest.

I had seen her as frightening… but she was the one living in fear.

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