My neighbor kept telling me she saw my daughter at home during school hours—so I pretended to leave for work and hid under her bed. What I heard next made my blood run cold.

From my hiding place under the bed, the world tilted.

I heard more movement—multiple small feet, backpacks being set down, chairs shifting.

The whispers carried fear, not mischief.

One child said, voice trembling, “He said I’m stupid. In front of everyone.”

Another voice, smaller: “She took my lunch and threw it away.”

A third: “If I tell my parents, they’ll just say stop being dramatic.”

Lily’s voice softened, the way it did when she talked to hurt animals in the yard.

“You’re not stupid,” she said. “None of you are. You’re just… stuck around mean people.”

Someone sniffled.

“Here,” Lily added quietly, “sit. Drink water. You can breathe here.”