When Liam and I married, our life in Boston was peaceful — except for one chilling ritual. Every night at 3 a.m., his mother, Margaret, would knock on our bedroom door. Three soft taps. Then silence.

At first, I thought she was confused or needed help. But each time I opened the door, the hallway was empty. Liam brushed it off — “Mom just wanders sometimes.” But after weeks of sleepless nights, I set up a hidden camera.

What I saw made my blood run cold. Margaret, in a white nightgown, stood at our door, knocked three times, and stared at it for minutes. No movement, no words — just a blank, distant look.

When I confronted her, she said nothing. Later, I found Liam’s notebook — notes about his mother’s fear of intruders after his father was killed decades ago. Her nightly knocks were her way of protecting him.

We got her help. Slowly, the knocking stopped — replaced by tea, laughter, and peace.

“Healing,” I learned, “isn’t about fixing someone — it’s about staying long enough to see them feel safe again.”