Today at breakfast my three year old came to the table with her baby doll. My husband and I asked her what her baby’s name is and she said she hadn’t decided yet. She told us her dog was named Siri, and that he was in his kennel because she was taking her baby to the swimming pool.

She paused for a beat, and got a very serious look on her face.

“My other kids died.” She said in a grave, strangely sorrowful way.

“What happened to them?” My husband asked.

“They died in the woods at Taliaferro park. There were monsters. They kept biting them and biting them. I tried to help them but the monsters just kept biting them.” She said.

Her face was full of emotion, but her explanation was concise, and her tone of voice, very matter of fact.

“How did that make you feel? Did it make you feel sad?” I asked her.

“It was a long time ago.” She said. She shrugged her shoulders. She shifted her feet. She said it in such a way to let us know that she had already processed this imaginary tragedy.

“How do you feel now?” I asked.

“It was a long time ago. I felt scared.” She said.

“May I give you a hug? Hugs can make you feel better when you talk about sad things.”

She walked over, let me hug her. I asked her to give me a hug too, feeling very much in need of one. She grabbed her baby and walked out of the kitchen.

My husband paused for a beat, and reminded me of a time I told him our child would certainly be a writer.

“I think this one is going to be her generation’s Stephen King.”