But even as you speak those words, you know you are lying. If there are no monsters, then what is it that so torments the world? If there are no monsters, where does all the dread and carnage come from? If there are no monsters, why is there fear? Perhaps there are other words, perhaps even other explanations, but if monsters are just metaphors or symbols, then you have to admit that the things they stand for are so much more horrible they make a child's fears seem cute.

The other day, your daughter drew a monster, hairy and huge and purple and green, with pointy teeth and toenails globbed with blood. She said, "This creature knocks at your door and befriends you. It pretends to be kind, and then it eats you in your sleep," and you saw with a shudder how much she understands.

Besides, you are a monster yourself. It's a secret you share with her, that a hideous, stinking, growling creature lurks beneath all your goodness. You know you are a model mother–patient, thoughtful, loving, lively, supportive, intelligent, kind, fun–and you know you have abused her. You have crushed and abandoned her in countless ways, and you know she knows it. When you asked, "What are you scared of?" an unrecognized sliver of yourself cringed in fear that the child would answer, "You."

Instead your daughter weeps, "I'm scared of monsters," and again you deny her. Again you say, "Monsters aren't real," while the shadows thicken around you.

(And here, your younger daughter, who is protected by her older sister's fear, pipes up, "If monsters aren't real, then neither is Santa Claus." But fortunately or not, this logically elegant and precocious non sequitur gets lost in her sister's tears.)

Because you've lied about the presence of monsters, the child tries a different tack. She resorts to logic to word her fears, "People could get in the house and hurt us." But now your response comes immediate and pure.

"I'll protect you," you promise, quick as light.

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