Emily sat in the quiet nursery and soaked up the cool autumn night.  It was one of those Midwest October nights; a bright, clear sky so crowded with stars you felt like God had spread a blanket over the whole world.  The air was crisp and clean and smelled vaguely of fresh earth, and the barn nearby, and the pretty orange Nasturtiums out on the front porch.

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She had just gotten Bobby back to sleep.  This old house was full of creaks and groans, and since moving here he heard monsters.  They didn’t bother him much anymore, but sometimes they still did, and tonight he’d had a bad dream.  So they performed their ritual; they scouted every room in the house, opened every cupboard and door, pulled out the monsters and flung them out the one window that didn’t have a screen.  Then they slammed the window shut and locked it firmly and danced a victory dance in the small living room.  She raced him back to his little bed, snuggled up and prayed with him, and read him one of his favorite stories, and finally left him peacefully sleeping with his teddy.  Now the quiet night filled the room as she rested in her rocking chair.  “No, Bobby boy, no monsters here,” she said softly to the darkness.  “Only angels are allowed in here.”  As she rocked her mind wandered back, remembering.

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She would never forget the night Bobby was born.  It was September 1979, and lying on that hospital bed she had held him for just a minute, too exhausted to be allowed more.  Bob was right there beside her, and she had asked, “Is he beautiful?”  And Bob had nodded and wept, and she thought he was just emotional.  It wasn’t till much later that she found out he cried because Bobby was the ugliest baby he had ever seen, and how do you tell your wife that when she has just gone through twenty-seven hours of labor?  Bobby’s head was stretched twice its normal length, and cone-shaped.  It was gone in a couple days, and then he really was beautiful.  Funny, though, she never remembered seeing his poor, misshapen head.  God had a way of removing those memories, she guessed, the same way she never really remembered just how much labor hurt.