And I am absolutely certain we have never exposed her to another language.
I went to Lily’s room and touched her shoulder gently.
She opened her eyes, calm and clear, as if she hadn’t been asleep at all.
It had a fluency that sent a cold ripple down my spine.
“Did you have a bad dream, baby?” I asked.
“No, Mom,” she replied and turned over.
I told myself it was nothing. I almost believed it.
The next morning, Lily was her usual bubbly self, devouring syrup-drenched waffles and asking if we could go to the park.
I probed gently, asking again if she’d had any dreams.
“Did you have a bad dream, baby?”
She just shook her head, innocent and unbothered.
“No, Mommy. I don’t remember.”
I let it go, chalking it up to an overactive imagination on my part.
It happened again the next night.
Lily’s voice was louder. It wasn’t just sounds. It was the language. The consistency of the time terrified me, suggesting a pattern that was anything but random.
When I woke her, Lily wore the same blank expression and quietly insisted she hadn’t been dreaming at all.
It happened again the next night.
I called a child therapist, who told me how sleep talking in children Lily’s age is more common than most parents realize.
She also said unfamiliar sounds can surface from language exposure they don’t consciously remember, whether from audiobooks, television, or overheard conversations.
I wanted to believe her. But something kept pulling at me that this was different.
On the third night, I climbed into Lily’s bed beside her and waited.
At two o’clock exactly, she began speaking in that same unfamiliar language.
Something kept pulling at me that this was different.
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