My ten-year-old daughter Sophie developed a routine so precise it almost felt scripted, as if someone had written directions for her afternoons and she was determined to follow them exactly. Every weekday, the front door would open at the same time, her backpack would slide off her shoulders and land by the shoe rack, and without pausing for a snack, a question, or even a complaint about homework, she would walk straight past me toward the bathroom. The door would close, the lock would click, and within minutes I’d hear the bathwater running. At first, I explained it away with the kind of logic parents use to soothe themselves. Children grow. Habits change. Maybe school had gotten dirtier.

Maybe gym class left her uncomfortable. I told myself I was being sensible, not paranoid. Still, there was something unsettling about the urgency in her movements, the way she seemed to be racing against something only she could see. She barely looked at me as she passed, her eyes focused ahead, her body tense. When I finally asked her about it one evening, I forced my voice to stay light, afraid that too much concern might frighten her or plant ideas that didn’t belong there.

She smiled up at me and said, “I just like to be clean.” It was a practiced smile, polite and smooth, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Sophie had never been particularly tidy. She lost shoes, forgot jackets, spilled drinks and laughed about it. Cleanliness had never mattered much to her. That answer lingered in my mind long after she went to bed. Over the following weeks, other changes crept in.