When my daughter, Lily, brought home a stuffed rabbit she adored, I thought it was just a toy. But one evening, I heard a voice responding through it, and what I uncovered changed our lives.
Being a single mom is the toughest job I’ve ever had. Four years ago, I learned that no amount of love for my daughter, Lily, made it easier. Her father, Daniel, walked out when she was four months old, saying fatherhood wasn’t for him. Since then, I’ve carried it all alone—bills, childcare, guilt. My shoes were worn thin so hers could fit. At night, I’d lie awake, wondering if I was enough for her. But Lily’s bright smile each morning gave me hope I was doing something right.
One Tuesday, after picking Lily up from preschool in our small Oregon town, we stopped at a thrift store. She begged to browse the toys, her eyes wide with excitement. I couldn’t afford extras, but her pleading wore me down. “Just looking,” I said, pushing her through the aisles.
She spotted a plush rabbit, white with floppy ears and a pink nose. Her face lit up. “Mommy, he’s perfect!” she said, hugging the air toward it.
“We can’t today, sweetie,” I said. “Next paycheck, I promise.” Her lip quivered, but she nodded, quiet. Her silence hurt more than tears.
At home, I distracted her with coloring while I cooked. She drew a picture—a girl and a rabbit—and taped it to the fridge. “That’s me and Mr. Floppy,” she said. Guilt stabbed me; I couldn’t even buy her a $5 toy.
The next week, picking her up from preschool, I saw her clutching that same rabbit. “Lily, where’d you get that?” I asked, heart racing.
“A nice lady gave it to me,” she said, pointing to a tag with “Lily” stitched on it. “It’s mine!”
“Who was she?” I pressed.
“She said she’s a friend,” Lily replied, squeezing the rabbit. Unease settled in me, but her joy made me pause. I asked her teachers, but they knew nothing of a missing toy or a visitor. I let it go, telling myself it was a kind gesture.
Lily named the rabbit Mr. Floppy and took it everywhere—bed, meals, even baths. She chattered to it about her day, her favorite flowers, how she loved cookies but not broccoli. I smiled at her imagination when she said, “Mr. Floppy says he hates broccoli too.” Kids, right?
Then, one night, as I passed her room after tucking her in, I heard her whisper, “Goodnight, Mr. Floppy.” A soft voice—a woman’s—replied, “Sleep well, Lily.”
My stomach dropped. I crept to her door. Lily was asleep, clutching the rabbit. I grabbed it, feeling for a device, but found nothing—no buttons, no speaker. “Mommy, don’t take him!” Lily mumbled, half-asleep. I returned it, heart pounding, and sat by her bed, questioning my sanity.
For days, I watched her closely. She’d giggle, talking to Mr. Floppy, and twice I swore I heard faint replies. I told myself it was exhaustion, but I needed answers. One evening, I hid in the hallway, listening as Lily sat on her rug with the rabbit.
“Why do you know my favorite color?” she asked.
After a pause, a woman’s voice said, “I have a little bird in your living room. It sees everything.”
A bird. I remembered a wooden bird carving on our bookshelf, a gift from a repairman who’d fixed our heater weeks ago. I rushed to the living room, grabbed the carving, and smashed it. A tiny camera and wires spilled out.
My hands shook. Someone was watching us. I thought of the repairman, alone in our house. Fury and fear mixed as I scooped up Lily and Mr. Floppy. “We’re going somewhere,” I said.
“Where?” she asked, confused.
“A quick trip,” I said, buckling her into the car. I drove to a house I hadn’t visited in years, memories of bitter fights flooding back.
Margaret answered the door, her face paling. “Claire? What’s this?”
I held up the rabbit. “Explain why your voice is coming from this. And why there’s a camera in my home.”
She stammered, “I didn’t mean harm—”
“Don’t lie!” I snapped. “You spied on us. On Lily. Why?”
Margaret was Daniel’s mother, my ex-mother-in-law, who’d urged him to leave us, calling Lily a burden. Now, tears filled her eyes. “I just wanted to know her,” she whispered. “I regret everything. I thought this was my only way.”
“By violating our home?” I said, voice shaking. “Tricking my daughter?”
“I was wrong,” she sobbed. “I miss her, Claire. I want to be her grandmother.”
I stared, anger warring with pity. I thought of Lily, her need for family beyond me. “If you ever do this again, I’m calling the police,” I warned.
She nodded, trembling. I hesitated, then turned to the car. “Lily, come here,” I called softly.
Lily stepped out, curious. I led her to Margaret. “This is your grandma,” I said.
Lily’s eyes widened, then she hugged Margaret, who sobbed, holding her tight. I didn’t trust Margaret fully, but Lily’s smile told me she needed this. For her, I’d try.