Feeling curious and a little emotional, I set an old family album in front of my son without offering any explanation.
He flipped through a few pages, then stopped and tapped a picture with absolute certainty. “That’s him, Mommy. That’s the man who sings.”
It was my father, smiling beneath his familiar wide-brimmed hat. My son wasn’t scared at all—he looked comforted, as if someone gentle were looking out for him.
That night, when I tucked him into bed, I felt calm rather than uneasy.
Whatever my son had experienced—imagination, a memory he couldn’t explain, or something beyond our understanding—it brought him warmth instead of fear.
I kissed his forehead and whispered, “If someone’s watching over you, then we’re lucky.”
For the first time in weeks, he slept peacefully through the night—and the rocking chair stayed completely still.
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