It was one of those rare, golden afternoons—the kind that feel almost too perfect to be real. The weather was just right, warm but not sweltering. No screens, no shoes, just bare feet pressing into the grass and the sun catching in their hair like strands of gold. I had just taken a few sweet photos of them lying on the picnic blanket—Timmy wrapped in his tiny towel, grinning, and Lily twirling proudly in her pink romper.
They looked so happy. So normal. Like nothing in the world could touch us.
But lately, Timmy’s been saying strange things.
Small things. Quiet things. The kind no four-year-old should really be able to say.
I kept brushing them off—figments of imagination, maybe a line from a cartoon, something half-heard and misunderstood.
But today… something felt different.
We were at the park, just soaking in the sunshine and letting the afternoon unfold. I had just snapped a photo of Timmy and Lily tossing a ball back and forth, their laughter ringing out like music. I lowered the camera to take it all in—when Timmy glanced up at me, his smile fading, replaced by something solemn.
“Mom,” he said softly, “remember when we went to that other place?”
I froze. My heart gave a strange little jolt in my chest.
“What other place, sweetie?” I asked, forcing my voice to stay light.
He pointed off into the distance, toward the line of trees where the sun was beginning to dip low. “The one where you were crying. And that lady was there with you. We went after the bad man came.”
I went cold. A chill crept over my skin, despite the warm breeze.
Bad man? That lady? What was he talking about?
He looked at me with eyes full of something too old for his age—like he was holding onto something he didn’t understand.
The usual background noise of the park—the kids playing, birds chirping—suddenly seemed far away, muffled under the weight of his words.
I forced a small smile, though my stomach was in knots. “That’s quite an imagination, Timmy. Where did you hear that?”
But he didn’t return my smile. He looked down at his feet, his brow scrunched like he was trying to remember something important. “I didn’t hear it. I remember it. The place was quiet. There was a big gate. And the lady was holding your hand. You were really, really sad.”
My knees gave way, and I knelt down in front of him, my camera forgotten in the grass. His words hit like echoes from somewhere else—like a memory that belonged to me, not to him.
“Timmy…” I whispered, reaching out for his small hand, my voice trembling. “What do you mean ‘bad man’? What do you remember?”