Dear Son,
Yesterday, when you came home in tears after hearing a rumor on the bus, I wanted to dismiss your fears. I wanted to tell you that the sixth-grader was merely a bully trying to frighten you—that there was no real danger from a man who entered a school and harmed innocent people. I wanted to soothe your worries and assure you that villains are just figments of imagination, and that the world is fundamentally safe.
But deep down, I knew I would have been lying. I would have continued to weave those comforting fabrications throughout your life if I could. I’d tell you that finishing your broccoli would make you stronger, that fairies deliver treats when your room is tidy, and that there are no monsters—in your bed, in the closet, or lurking in schools.
Yet, as difficult as it is for both of us to accept, your time with me is fleeting. Someday, I must prepare you for a world where broccoli is optional, where fairies don’t exist, and where, until recently, anyone could purchase firearms at a store like Walmart.
So, I gazed into your tear-filled hazel eyes and spoke the truth. Yes, there was an evil man. Yes, he took lives. No, there was no justification for his actions. I wrapped my arms around you, holding you close as you inhaled and exhaled, your trembling shoulders gradually calming and the tears eventually fading into red rings around your eyes.
Once your tears subsided, I lifted you onto my lap for one of our “deep talks.” It was challenging to know where to start. I could have shared stories of Columbine, Aurora, or Newtown—oh, the tragedy of Newtown. I could have discussed gun control or mental health issues. I could have mentioned that some individuals view the world through a lens distorted by pain, similar to Kai in your favorite fairy tale.
But every time I tried to speak, I noticed the flush on your cheeks and the soft whimper in your breath. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So instead, I began anew, using your language of heroes and villains. I told you a story about a sad, angry person—someone who had sought help repeatedly but had been turned away or misunderstood. This person, whom society labeled a villain, hid in the shadows, waiting for the right moment.
When that moment arrived, this troubled soul unleashed chaos, harming many indiscriminately. I paused and looked at you. Your eyes were wide and glistening, but you weren’t crying. After all, it was just a story, and stories are what you understand best.
“What do you think happened next?” I asked.
“A hero came along!” you shouted.
I wrapped my arms around you, feeling the warmth of your small body and the rapid beat of your heart. “Yes! There was a hero. Of course!” I exclaimed.
I told you about a brave young man who confronted the villain, subdued her, and even cared for her injuries until the authorities arrived to take her away.
You wanted to see pictures, to hear the tale as it was crafted by the author, not my jumble of retelling. I explained that no images existed of this particular story, only the words my friends and I have shared over time, memories that have reshaped lives and lingered in our minds.
Then, you laughed—a joyful, bubbly sound that was both comforting and heart-wrenching. “That can’t be true, Mama. Nobody would care for a bad guy’s cuts. The hero would just kill him.” I smiled, realizing that, for the first time, reality surpassed your fairy tales. Real heroes do exist, and my story was indeed true.
I explained that many years ago, when I was a student at Penn State, this really happened. The hero, Alex Rivers, saved people dear to me by stopping the villain and tending to her injuries. I was fortunate enough to meet him and express my gratitude for his bravery.
I clarified that the villain was more a troubled girl than a true monster. I didn’t disclose her name, as we never give attention to villains; it only empowers them.
We discussed the events in Roseburg, Oregon, where, even on that dreadful day, there was a hero named Sam Johnson. He bravely charged at the villain, despite being shot multiple times, all while it was his own son’s birthday.
I wanted to delve deeper into the complexities of good and evil, but you grew restless, and I realized you had absorbed all you could for now. After you left, I sat in silence, overwhelmed by memories and concerns for the future.
As I ascended the stairs later, I paused outside your room. I saw your small figures lined up in your wooden castle, heard the sounds of you and your sister lost in play, and watched as you clashed dragons with knights.
The world isn’t neatly organized, my son. Good and evil don’t fit into tidy categories like they do in your games. Villains are often more sad or sick than truly evil. Dragons are merely oversized lizards, and castles can be swept away by the tide.
But heroes? Heroes are undeniably real.
In summary, this letter conveys the complex realities of life to a child, blending the harsh truths with the comforting notion of heroes. It highlights how difficult conversations about good and evil can be, while ultimately emphasizing that, despite the challenges, real bravery does exist in the world.