It was 97 degrees when my daughter whispered something that made my blood run cold: “The lady in the tree told me not to go home.”

She said the woman was in our bathroom mirror—the one facing the woods—and that I wasn’t really her mom anymore… just wearing her skin. I tried to laugh it off, but then I saw a smudged handprint on the inside of the car’s rear window. Too big to be hers. Too warped to be human.

We fled to my sister’s. I didn’t explain. Just said the power was out.

That night, I saw a shadow move behind me—in the mirror. My daughter woke pale the next morning and said, “She says you’ve got until tonight.”

I called a friend, a child psychologist. She said kids sometimes project pain onto symbols like mirrors. It made sense… until my daughter drew a woman under a gnarled tree. The same tree outside our bathroom window.

Then I remembered an old story my grandmother once told me—about a woman who lived in the woods. You had to say her name if you saw her in a mirror. If you ignored her… she’d take your face.

I dug out a photo album. My daughter pointed to a black-and-white picture. “That’s her.” My great-grandmother. Dead young. Declared insane.

When I called my mom, she went quiet. Then she said, “I always meant to cut that tree down.”

That night, I salted the windows and held my daughter close. I dreamed of the woman holding a mirror, showing me her face where mine should be.

I woke up screaming. My daughter was at the front door. “She said the proof is now.”

And then… every mirror in the house shattered.

We left at dawn. Stayed with family. No trees. No mirrors. My daughter slowly returned to herself.

But one day, she looked up and asked, “If the lady wore you once… how do we know she gave you back?”

That question still haunts me.

We cut the tree. Removed all mirrors. I found my mother’s old journal—one line burned into my memory: “She screamed when I pretended to forget her name.”

We’re safe now. My daughter says she’s gone. But I still feel something shift in the corners of shiny things.

The lesson? Some fears are inherited. And sometimes, the only way to break the cycle… is to see the darkness clearly, and say its name.