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"Daddy, I'm scared".

"Why are you scared, Emerson?" I asked. He told me that he wanted me to light the candle to scare off the monsters. Rather than argue with the 3-year-old about the existence of monsters, I lit 3 little candles in the bathroom, and the flickering glow flowed gently into the bedroom.

"There you go, little man", I said with a kiss to his little forehead. I left the room. After a couple of minutes, I went back to the room and peeked in through the crack in the door. I could hear a sniffle. Then another. I saw him bravely wipe an eye with his pajama sleeve, so I walked in and lay down next to him.

"Are you still scared?" He just nodded and sniffled. I thought of what my Great-aunt Isyle (yes, that was her name...pronounced "eye-soul") used to do when I couldn't sleep. I said, "Would you like to make a story?" "SpongeBob!" he said.

"Let's make up our own story, Emerson". His sad little mouth turned up into a big toothy grin, which he tried to suppress, unsuccessfully. I snuggled up closer to him. "How do stories start, Emerson?"

"Maybe...I don't know, Daddy."

"How about, Once upon a time? Say that with me..." We said it together, "Once upon a time". I asked him who our story should be about. "I don't know, Daddy". "I know...I'll start, ok?"

He smiled again. What a beautiful boy. "Once upon a time, there was a boy named Stuart. What does Stuart like to do, Emerson?"

"I know, he is riding his bike!"

"Then what? What happens to him next?"

"Maybe...I don't know, Daddy."

"How about, Stuart was riding his bike..." I could see that the distraction of our story had made Emerson forget about monsters, dark closets, and the tic-tocking of the Angels clock that was now on the top of my closet shelf, per Emerson's request. Distraction. It is one of the first tools any parent should have in their parenthood tool box.

"What happens to Stuart, Emerson?" "Maybe...I don't know", he said, trying to bite his lip. But it did not work, because I could see his smile. The fear was gone, replaced by the beautiful, pure smile that I wish the rest of the world could share. My father had never read me a bedtime story. He never held my hand when I was scared, or curled up next to me to comfort my fears. I grew up with the same fears as my little boy, the same fears that my now-15-year-old son Cameron also experienced. Yet, I had never known a father's selfless compassion. My mother tried, of course, but to a boy it just is not the same. Since Cameron was little, I have always sensed

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