Max’s family was in town last month, and we had one last big meal at his mom’s house before they left. It was perfect and sad, and we didn’t want to say goodbye. When we stepped out onto the porch, the moon was up, full and bright against the darkening sky. I carried Eva over past the car and the cicadas and the ticks and the tree stump where I scattered my last dog’s tiny baggie of ashes over to a clearing where she could see the light coming through the trees.

“I don’t want to see that moon,” she said. I tried to stay calm and keep a straight face while we walked back to the car and buckled her in. She normally loves to see the moon. Her tone almost made me laugh. I thought the moon was amazing that night.

On the way home, she looked around half-curious, half-scared. After we parked, she asked me to get her out, which is the opposite of her usual “DAD UP!” when we’re all in the same vehicle.

“I don’t want to see that moon,” she repeated, holding me tightly.

“Okay,” I said, and took her inside.

I got her ready for bed. Water bottle, lamp on, buddies in place, hope for the best, brush teeth, pajamas, pray for a miracle. I noticed she was still looking around for the moon so as not to be surprised by it. “Where’s that moon?” she asked. We couldn’t see it from our house yet, so I offered to tell her about it and put her up on the toilet. She’s two and a half and we’re in the middle of potty training. I tried to explain how the light from the sun bounces off the moon, the same way the bathroom light bounces off the tile in the shower. She was suspicious. “Let’s talk about that moon later,” she decided. I nodded and thought about my C average in astronomy, and then skipped ahead to the self-help parenting books I’ve skimmed in doctor’s offices. Strategies for dealing with strong feelings. I decided to change the subject.

“You said later. What does later mean to you?” I asked. She thought about it quietly and waited for me to answer my own question. Everything in the past is yesterday to her or “yess-ter-dey” in her sweet drawl. If you ask her why she wants something, she answers “now.” We’re still working on the future tense, which is why the clarity of her later surprised me. I told her she can always tell me she wants to talk about something later—or not at all. And then she didn’t want to talk about anything. It was time for bed.

While I was putting on her night diaper, she admitted that she was scared of seeing that moon out of her window. I told her she could close her eyes, and covered them softly to show her that it’s okay. She kept them shut tight. When her fear is palpable like that, I worry that mine is too. I’m not ready for nightmares and monsters. Let’s talk about those things some other time.