My five-year-old has names for everything. Her stuffed rabbit is Gerald. Her favorite blanket is Princess Cloud. And apparently, the man who visits her at night is “Mr. Tom.”
My five-year-old has names for everything. Her stuffed rabbit is Gerald. Her favorite blanket is Princess Cloud. And apparently, the man who visits her at night is “Mr. Tom.” I didn’t know any Tom. It started over cereal on an ordinary Wednesday morning. Ellie was focused on her bowl of Cheerios when she said, casually, “Mr. Tom thinks you work too much, Mommy.” I set my coffee down. “Who’s Mr. Tom?” “He checks on me,” she said, like that explained everything. I assumed it was imaginary. Ellie lives in a world where toys have feelings and clouds have personalities. I let it go. A week later, while brushing her hair before bed, she frowned at our reflection and asked, “Mom, why does Mr. Tom only come when you’re asleep?” The brush froze in my hand. “What do you mean?” “He comes at night. He checks the window first. Then he talks to me for a bit.” She paused. “He says not to wake you.” My stomach turned cold. “What does he look like?” “He’s old. He smells like ...