Emma turned seven last spring. Ever since she was a child, she had trouble sleeping. She often woke up screaming at night, trembling, and sometimes sleepwalking. Sometimes she’d just sit in bed and stare into the hallway, as if she saw someone there. I chalked it all up to the past and was sure that love would fix everything with time.
But it didn’t get any easier.
After a few months, I began to notice something strange. Almost every night around midnight, Max would get out of our bed. He’d whisper the same thing: his back hurt, the couch would be more comfortable. I believed him… until the night I woke up and couldn’t find him anywhere.
The couch was empty. The kitchen was dark. The house was too quiet.
And then I noticed a sliver of light under Emma’s door.
I peered inside. Max was lying next to her, his arm around her shoulders, as if he’d been there for a long time.
“Max?” I called softly.
He shuddered and opened his eyes.
“She had another nightmare. I just wanted to be with her,” he said calmly.
