Late one night, I walked past my son’s room and noticed him sitting straight up in bed, whispering into the darkness with calm, steady focus. For a split second, my heart jumped—until I realized he didn’t look scared at all. When I stepped inside, he simply pointed to the rocking chair in the corner and said, “Mommy, the big man sits there. He sings.” The chair was perfectly still when I looked, yet it felt as if something gentle had just slipped away before I entered.
The next morning, I asked him carefully about this “big man.” He described him as kind, older, and wearing “a hat like the ones in Grandpa’s pictures.” His words sent a warm shiver through me. My father had passed away long before my son was born, and the old hat he was referring to hadn’t been seen or shown in years. My son had never been told about it—not even in stories.
Feeling a mixture of curiosity and emotion, I brought out an old family album and placed it in front of him without saying anything. He flipped through the pages, paused, and placed his finger confidently on a photo. “That’s him, Mommy. That’s the man who sings.” It was my father, smiling in that very hat. My son didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t seem afraid—only sure and comforted, like he was describing someone familiar.
That night, as I tucked him in, I felt a surprising sense of peace instead of fear. Whether it was imagination, a dream, or something more mysterious, whatever my son experienced made him feel protected, not worried. I kissed his forehead and whispered, “If someone is watching over you, then we’re lucky.” And for the first time in a long while, he drifted into a calm, quiet sleep—while the rocking chair, in the soft glow of the hallway light, stayed completely still.