My Brother Won’t Sleep in His Bed—He Says the Cow Knows the Truth

He used to be the loudest kid in the room—restless, energetic, and always moving.
You could hardly get him to sit still for a single moment.

But something changed after our trip to the farm last fall.
Since then, his voice has dropped to a whisper, barely audible.

At night, he refuses to sleep in his own bed.
Instead, he curls up in the barn, pressed close to Daisy, the cow.

Mom finds the whole thing endearing, smiling at the sight of him sleeping there.
She says it’s harmless and sweet.

Dad insists it’s nothing serious, calling it just a passing phase.
He shrugs it off whenever anyone asks.

But last night, I overheard something that made my skin crawl.
Dad was speaking softly, certain nobody else was listening.

The tone in his voice wasn’t casual—it was heavy, uneasy.
Whatever he said wasn’t meant for anyone else to hear.

And now I can’t stop thinking about it.
About him. About Daisy. About what happened on that farm.