Lina’s smile lit up the room as she gently held her newborn sister, Elsie, wrapped in a bright yellow blanket. Her little hands wrapped tenderly around the baby, and from my hospital bed, tired and patched up, I watched her gaze filled with love. Lina had waited four long years for this moment, always kissing my belly and asking if her sister had arrived.
When she leaned close to Elsie and whispered, “Now I have someone to keep the secrets with,” I paused. “Secrets?” I asked, blinking in surprise. She smiled wider and nodded, “Like the ones I don’t tell Dad. It’s okay—she won’t say either.” I laughed it off, telling her babies don’t talk, but the thought lingered.
Lina was always imaginative, inventing dragons named Toffee and believing clouds were God’s pillows. But two months after Elsie’s birth, I overheard Lina telling her dolls, “We don’t tell Daddy. That’s the rule.” When I asked why, she just shrugged, then hurried off.
One evening, I caught her whispering to Elsie in the backyard, “If Daddy asks, we say the monster only comes when he’s not home.” My heart stopped. When pressed, she described a tall, shadowy figure that banged on windows and lurked in the kitchen. “Elsie sees it too,” she said quietly. That night, I barely slept.
James, my husband, worked late often, and I started wondering if Lina’s fears were real. I listened carefully for sounds and watched their playthrough baby monitors.
One night, I saw Lina standing quietly outside our bedroom before returning to bed. Searching her room, I found a crayon drawing under her pillow: a tall, faceless figure looming over two smaller figures, captioned, “Don’t let him take her.” James paled when I showed it to him. We planned to get help.
Then, suddenly, Lina disappeared. We searched desperately, and four hours later James found her clinging to Elsie in the shed. She whispered, “The monster said he was coming. He told me I could give him Elsie instead.” When asked if anyone had broken in, she shook her head, “He doesn’t need doors.”
At therapy, Lina spoke for hours, revealing anxiety and trauma. When gently asked about the monster, she said, “He smells like Daddy. He doesn’t look like him, but sometimes he sounds like him when he yells or slams doors. He scares me—only when you’re away.”
That night, I confronted James, who broke down admitting he struggled with alcohol during my pregnancy and sometimes scared and hurt Lina. Lina had pictured this fear as a monster.
James left to get help, and Lina started therapy. Slowly, the whispers stopped, the drawings disappeared, and laughter returned. James remained sober and visited under supervision. Months later, as I tucked Lina in, she said softly, “I don’t need to keep secrets anymore.” My heart ached but healed.
Sometimes, the scariest monsters aren’t in the dark—they’re the people we love. But healing is possible, and no child should have to keep such secrets.
