It started with a scream in the middle of the night. My son, barely seven, was trembling, eyes wide with terror. He said he saw someone standing in the hallway—someone he didn’t recognize. I brushed it off as a nightmare. Kids imagine things, right?
But the fear didn’t fade. It grew. He refused to sleep alone. He flinched at shadows. He stopped talking around certain relatives. And every time I asked why, he’d just say, “I don’t feel safe.”
I told myself it was anxiety. I tried therapy. I tried tough love. I tried everything except listening.
Until one day, I overheard a conversation between him and his cousin. Words like “secret,” “don’t tell,” and “bad touch” froze me in place. My stomach dropped. The nightmare wasn’t his—it was mine. And it had been unfolding in my own family.
What followed was a storm of revelations. A trusted relative had been abusing him. The signs were there. The fear was real. And I had missed it all.
I reported it. I confronted it. I protected my son. But I also had to face the guilt of not seeing sooner. Of dismissing his fear as childish imagination. Of choosing comfort over truth.
Now, I speak out. Because fear in children isn’t always irrational. Sometimes it’s the only language they have to say, “Help me.”
