Time flies when you’re having fun.

After one blissfully quiet year of the married life, Jacqueline and I got a beautiful surprise in the form of a baby girl. We named her Samantha, after her uncle.

She was born in the hospital where we work. Our co-workers oohed and aahed through the big window at the nursery.

Even though the nurses didn’t give Samantha an identification bracelet, it was always easy to find her. She was the only pale-skinned, thin-haired baby. The brown babies around her had abundant hair as soon as they’d emerged from their mothers’ wombs.

But luckily for Samantha, her hair has been growing thicker and longer over the years. At three years old, she now has fine, straight, blonde hair like her mother.

She has my eyes, though. It’s funny how much Samantha looks like both Jacqueline and me, even though the two of us don’t look alike. Ah, the wonders of human biology.

I turn off all the lights downstairs and climb up the carpeted steps as quietly and quickly as I can.

Jacqueline’s often too tired to stay up long past Samantha’s bedtime, so they’re both probably asleep now. I don’t want to wake anyone up if they’re asleep, but I also want to see them if they’re still up.

My busy schedule at the hospital means that I often only see Samantha early in the morning or late at night. It’s only ten minutes past Samantha’s bedtime now, but it’s already dark and quiet upstairs, where all the bedrooms are.

Jacqueline insists on staying home and taking care of Samantha, at least for the first few years. So there’s always one of us here with our daughter when she wakes up and goes to sleep.

Jacqueline takes on her new role as a mother seriously, and even though she’s often critical of herself, I think she’s doing a great job.

As I walk down the hallway toward Samantha’s bedroom, I hear faint laughter from inside.

My heart does a little happy flip and I quicken my pace. Maybe my wife and daughter are still playing together.

But then I hear something that stops me in my tracks.

Is that a man’s voice in Samantha’s bedroom?

Through the gap under her door, I can see that it’s dark inside.

Jacqueline wouldn’t let a grown man play alone in the dark with Samantha at her bedtime.

Who the fuck is that?

An intruder?

I grab a vase from a shelf on the wall. I can smash it against something hard and then I’ll have a sharp, deadly weapon.

I turn the doorknob and swing the door open. Adrenaline pumps into my bloodstream. Coupled with my natural instinct to protect my daughter, I’m ready to kill if necessary. The Hippocratic Oath can go fuck itself right now.

“Daddy, you’re home,” Samantha’s small, girlish voice says. She sounds happy as a clam.

I turn on the ceiling light.

“Honey, are you okay?” I rush to her side, even as my eyes scan the hidden nooks and crannies in the room and hold the vase by its neck, ready to use it as a weapon. “Was there someone here?”

“Yeah,” she says in a sleepy voice as she sits up.

My muscles tense. The intruder must be watching, ready to attack.

“Where is he now, honey? Tell Daddy.”

“Behind you,” she says.

I swing around, but there’s nothing. Just a shelf full of Samantha’s colorful books and toys.

“Where is he?” I ask again.

“Right there,” Samantha says, pointing to the empty space. “Don’t worry, Daddy. It’s just Sam.”

It’s sweet that she names her imaginary friend after her uncle, especially because she’s named after him, too. It’s too bad Sam the imaginary friend can’t also go on to create more Sams—obviously, Jacqueline and I are fans of the name.

Even though Jacqueline didn’t have time to pack before leaving San Francisco, she has some childhood pictures stored on her phone that we’ve showed Samantha. So we weren’t surprised when she told us her new friend, Sam, was a friendly, grown-up dude with light-brown hair and blue eyes.

But has a stranger found out about Samantha’s imaginary friend and used the information to enter our home?

I open the doors of the closet. Nothing.

There’s nowhere else to hide.

There’s a window, but we’re on the second floor. Besides, the window is closed.

“Honey, who was here?” I ask again.

There’s no man hiding in this room, but I could swear I heard someone.

“I told you, Daddy. It’s Sam.” Samantha pauses and tilts her head like she’s listening to someone. Then, she opens her little mouth. “He says he’s sorry.”

“Who? Sam? For startling me?” I don’t even know what I’m asking anymore.

It can’t be true. There’s no other man in this room. As much as I love her and think the world of her, Samantha’s still just a toddler.

“Yes.” She pauses, again looking like she’s listening. She adds, “And for everything.”

With my heart pounding, I sit on the edge of Samantha’s single bed. I don’t know why, but I feel like I have to listen.

That laughter… I hadn’t heard it in more than ten years, but I’d recognize it anywhere. It really did sound like him.

“When you say it’s Sam, do you mean your uncle, honey?” I ask softly, searching her face for dishonesty and finding only innocence and confusion.

“Yes. I told you, Daddy.”

“I know you did.” I can’t believe I’m doing this, but I have to ask, “What else is Sam saying?”

Samantha smiles. After another short pause, she says, “He says you’re a good friend. He misses you.”

I lean down and pull her little body into a tight hug. I still have no idea what to believe, but peace washes over me and the guilt that I’ve been holding onto begins to melt away.

“Daddy? Are you okay?” Samantha asks in a concerned voice.

“Yes, honey. I’m okay. I just miss Sam, too.”

She laughs softly and yawns.

“You go to sleep now.” I give her a goodnight kiss and tuck her in, then I quickly turn off the light. “Good night, honey.”

“Good night, Daddy,” she says as I slip outside.

I give myself permission to freak out over the creepy thing that has just happened, but all I feel is love.

Entering my own bedroom, I watch as Jacqueline’s body rise up and down under the blanket with her every breath. I wonder if she’s going to think I’m insane for thinking Sam’s ghost has followed us all the way here to Ghana just to play with his niece.

But she’s probably exhausted, and the story can wait until tomorrow.

I shed my clothes and climb into bed. Leaning over and giving my wife a light peck on her cheek, I whisper, “I love you.”

She grinds her teeth softly, then she mumbles, “Love you, too.”

The corners of my lips tug up into a smile. As usual, she won’t remember saying that in the morning, but I love that she doesn’t stop loving me, even in her sleep.

And maybe it’s not such a big stretch to believe that my best friend still loves me the way I love him, wherever he is.

* * *

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