“Mom… someone watches me at night.”
The first time he said it, I was folding laundry on the couch while he stood in the hallway in his dinosaur pajamas, rubbing one eye. He looked half asleep, his hair sticking up in the back, and I gave him the kind of smile mothers give when they think a problem can be solved with gentleness.
“What do you mean, sweetheart?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “At night. When it’s dark.”
I thought it was just his imagination.
Night fears, shadows, the usual things kids go through. So I tucked him back into bed, kissed his forehead, and left the hall light on a little brighter than usual.
But he kept repeating it.
Every single night.
Continue on the next page:
