My daughter had an imaginary friend. Now she’s my imaginary friend.

I have a confession to make. One of the most painful things I have ever admitted was out of my hands. I couldn’t bear the thought of breaking down in front of anyone. Even now, in the dead of night, I’m able to hold my composure long enough to document what happened. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up. I’m not sure I was ever built to last. I’m not built to last without her. I have a lot to say. I’d like to start at the end. I’m not capable of speaking of her without breaking down. I didn’t think I’d be able to take my time with my story, but the words are flowing freely and I am by my lonesome. My daughter, she’s dead. That’s all I can manage. My hand is shaking and my eyes are welling up. I will have to continue this tomorrow. I made some tea, took a few deep breaths, and got some sleep. I left my phone in the hallway to help me avoid the distraction of social media. I woke up, washed my face, and sat back in front of this stupid computer. My daughter, she’s dead. I can say it. She’s not here, but her spirit is. I’m not sure if it’s the booze or some other mental gymnastics that’s making me feel this way, but I’m not alone. Also, my wife isn’t my wife anymore. We’re still together, but she thinks my daughter died. I know where she is heaped beneath the dirt. This house is empty. Enough about what isn’t important. The story. ---- My daughter, Lily, was a sweet girl; the kind of girl that any man would be lucky to have as a daughter. I don’t say that often enough. She was an honor student, a star athlete, and was always willing to lend a helping hand. She was the kind of child that made you feel proud to be a parent. That isn’t what I’m here for. My daughter had an imaginary friend. Most children have had an imaginary friend at least once in their life. Some children are very open with “talking” to them, but Lily wasn’t. In fact, she never once mentioned her friend. She would, however, talk to her. It started when Lily was around eight or nine. It was no longer cinnamon toast crunch for breakfast; it was whatever she had managed to scrape off of her plate the night before. She would often talk about how much her new friend hated chicken. This was strange to me, as Lily and chicken were thick as thieves. I remember asking my wife about it but she dismissed the idea and was insistent that our daughter was not entertaining a separate personality. Lily didn’t tell me that her friend hated chicken. She said that Janet hated chicken. So, I asked if Janet was her friend. My wife said of course. I never met Janet. Over the years, Janet never went away. She never left the house, and would most often wait for Lily to go to bed before coming out. I remember one time when I caught Lily talking to herself in her room. She was giggling, and I thought it was cute. When she saw me, she immediately hushed herself and said she was sorry. I asked her what she was sorry for. She said, “I wasn’t supposed to talk to her while people are here.” I asked her what she meant, and she said, “You know, people.” I asked her who else was there, and she told me, “You, mommy, and Janet.” I never saw Janet, but I knew she was there. I could hear her. In the quiet of night, you could hear Lily laughing at someone or something. I could have sworn it was a TV left on, but my wife would tell me it was Janet. It was Janet this and Janet that, and I don’t know how many times I heard, “Janet doesn’t like that!” or, “Janet isn’t hungry!” It was only me that Janet didn’t seem to like. She didn’t like my cooking, she didn’t like my shirts, and she didn’t like my haircut. I didn’t like Janet. My wife always thought it was cute, but it wasn’t until our daughter was in her mid-twenties when Janet had overstayed her welcome. Lily was still living at home. My wife and I didn’t mind. The house was big enough and our daughter was well on her way to becoming a prosperous adult. She had long since stopped talking to Janet, but her friend left an impact on all three of us. In fact, we never sat down to eat without making sure Janet got her fair share. It was strange, but Janet had her own plate. It wasn’t as if we’d set the table without a plate for the imaginary friend. It was more like Janet was a member of our family. Her plate was always across from Lily. Her chair, too. Lily got pregnant. We were excited. Lily was excited. Janet wasn’t. “She doesn’t want you to do it,” she said. I was happy she was pregnant. I had just turned forty and that’s the age according to some book that men’s sperm was no longer any good. In all honesty, our daughter was the only child we’d ever have. My wife had a miscarriage when Lily was a toddler. It was sad, but we were in the process of adopting a child. We received the call that the adoption had fallen through, but at least we still had Lily. We’d never have children. There was a time when I thought adopting an older child would be ideal. I’m glad we didn’t. Our daughter was perfect. “She doesn’t want you to do it,” she said again. I thought she meant the abortion. Her and her boyfriend had decided to get one. I was so confused. My daughter came to us and said she wanted an abortion. Her boyfriend didn’t want one, but he left it up to Lily to decide. We were all so confused. “She doesn’t want you to do it,” she said, again. “Who doesn’t want me to do it?” I asked. She was silent, before responding, “She doesn’t want you to do it.” “Who is she?” “She.” “Janet?” She wouldn’t answer. My wife had something to say. “Lily, Janet’s been dead for some time now.” She looked at us as if we were out of our minds. “You know Janet. How could you say that?” “You don’t talk to Janet anymore,” my wife said. “Of course I don’t. You don’t understand.” “Perhaps you should explain,” I said. “She isn’t here.” “She’s here,” my wife said. “She’s here,” I repeated. “You don’t understand,” my daughter said, “She’s always here, but she’s never happy.” “She’s happy,” my wife said. “She’s unhappy. She’s angry. She won’t let me do it.” “Janet?” My wife asked. “Yes.” “She isn’t here,” I said. I could feel it. She was in the room, grinning down on my daughter. Maybe it was the booze, but I could feel her presence. She was here, but I didn’t want to admit it. “Janet,” my wife said. I heard a voice, “I won’t let her do it.” “Did you just hear that?” I asked my wife, but she shook her head. “You won’t let me do what?” Lily asked. “I won’t let you do it.” “Do what?” “I won’t let you do it.” “Let me do what?” “I won’t let you do it.” “Stop it,” my daughter said. “Janet, stop it!” “Janet,” my wife said, “Leave her alone.” I tried to stand up, but my wife held my arm. I didn’t stand up. I wanted to stand up for my daughter. I didn’t. I wanted to be a better father. A few days later, my daughter was rushed to the hospital. She’d had a miscarriage. The baby was gone. She was devastated. I never did find out what happened. In my mind, I like to think Janet had nothing to do with it. As the years went on, my daughter met a new man. She was around twenty-four then. They announced their engagement and we were overjoyed. They were married in the backyard. Janet was there to witness it. “You know she doesn’t approve,” my wife whispered in my ear at the reception. “She doesn’t,” I responded. The room was silent, as if Janet was waiting for someone to speak. “She’s not here,” someone else in the room said. “She’s here,” I said. “She’s not here.” “She’s right here.” “She’s right there.” “She’s right there.” “She’s not right there.” “She’s right here.” “She’s not here.” “She’s here.” “She’s not here.” “She’s not right there.” “She’s not right here.” “She’s not there.” “She’s not here.” “She’s here.” “She’s not here.” “She’s right here.” “She’s right there.” “She’s right here.” “She’s right there.” “She’s there.” “She’s here.” “She’s not right there.” “She’s right there.” “She’s not here.” “She’s not right here.” “She’s right there.” “She’s not right there.” “She’s here.” “She’s there.” “She’s right there.” “She’s not here.” “She’s not there.” “She’s right there.” “She’s he-” “Stop it,” my daughter said. “You know she doesn’t approve,” my wife whispered in my ear at the reception. “She doesn’t,” I responded

My daughter had an imaginary friend. Now she’s my imaginary friend.

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