Submitted by Jane

I first noticed my son’s imaginary friend one lazy afternoon. He was playing with his toys, chatting away. At first, I thought it was cute – kids often make up friends. But things got weird.

He wasn’t just talking; he was answering questions. Pausing as if listening. He’d giggle or nod like his ‘friend’ was saying funny or smart things. Once, I even heard him say,

"No, you try it first."

His room would get cold, even when the rest of the house was warm. I’d check for drafts, but found nothing odd. Yet it always seemed colder when he talked to… whoever it was.

One night, I swore I saw a shadow move across his room. It stayed longer than a trick of light should. A chill ran down my spine.

When I’d ask about his friend, my son’s eyes would light up. He’d talk about their games and stories like the friend was real. It made me wonder: was I overthinking, or was there more to this?

I set up a recorder in his room, hoping to catch something. Listening back, I heard my son’s chatter. But in one pause, I picked up something faint, like a breath or soft hum. I played it over and over, unsure what to make of it.

Part of me wants to dismiss it all as a phase. But another part wonders: what if there really is something – or someone – connecting with him?

Things got stranger when my son started sharing details about his “friend.” It sounded less like make-believe and more like he was describing a real person.

At dinner, he said,

"Oscar loves spaghetti, just like me."

I paused. Oscar? We don't know any Oscars.

“Who’s Oscar?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

“He’s my friend, silly!” he replied, rolling his eyes.

He went on:

"Oscar loves soccer and cartoons. He likes oranges but not carrots."

Later, as I tucked him in, he said something that gave me chills.

"Oscar told me you used to love drawing when you were little."

My heart skipped. I had loved drawing as a kid, but I’d never told him that.

“Did Oscar say anything else?” I asked, trying to sound normal.

"Just that it's fun when you smile,"

he said before drifting off to sleep.

I lay awake that night, confused. How could this imaginary friend know about my childhood? Was it just chance? Or was there more to Oscar than met the eye?

Weeks later, I was cleaning up my son’s room when I heard faint whispers. The house was quiet except for my son’s giggles down the hall.

"Stop it!"

I heard him laugh.

I peeked in to see him rolling on the floor, laughing hard. The room was empty except for toys, but he acted like someone was there, making him laugh.

“Who are you talking to, buddy?” I asked, trying to sound calm.

Through giggles, he said,

"Oscar! He's being so funny today!"

“What’s Oscar doing that’s so funny?” I asked, moving closer.

"He keeps making silly faces and doing a funny dance!"

I felt uneasy but didn’t want to spoil his joy. “Tell Oscar to save some jokes for tomorrow, okay? We need to clean up now.”

He nodded, suddenly noticing the mess of toys. I wanted to ask more about the whispers, but something told me not to push. Maybe I was imagining things. Or maybe Oscar, whoever he was, had something to share. Only time would tell.

I tried to calm myself, thinking it was just his creative mind. Kids pick up so much from their surroundings, after all.

While making dinner, I went over possible sources for ‘Oscar.’ A movie character? A friend’s family member? I even searched through kids’ shows for any mention of an Oscar.

That night, I talked to my husband about it. He listened carefully before saying,

"You know how kids can be. It's probably just his imagination."

I nodded, but wasn’t sure. What about the cold room? The whispers? The personal details about me?

We watched a show about child development that said imaginary friends can reflect a child’s thoughts or feelings. It’s normal and healthy, they said. That made me feel better.

Still, watching my son chat with Oscar over breakfast, I had doubts. I decided to test it. During lunch, I asked casual questions about Oscar’s likes and habits.

My son answered easily:

"Oscar likes the park with the big slide. He can fly down it super fast!"

Nothing odd, but the way he looked past me, like he saw more than just the kitchen walls, left me uneasy.

In the end, I had to accept I couldn’t explain everything. Whatever was happening, I hoped Oscar – real or not – was good for my son. All I could do was listen, stay open, and maybe learn about the amazing worlds only kids can see.

One afternoon, while looking at old family photos with my son, I started pointing out faces and places from our history.

“That’s your Grandpa Joe,” I said, tapping a sepia-toned picture. “He loved fishing and always wore that silly hat with the feathers. See?” I smiled, remembering childhood summers at the lake.

My son looked closely at the photo, then said,

"Oscar told me about him! He said Grandpa once caught the biggest fish ever, and everyone cheered!"

I froze. How could he know about that fishing trip? I never shared that story, not even with my husband.

“What else did Oscar tell you?” I asked, trying to stay calm.

“He said Grandma used to sing you a sweet song every night before bed,” my son replied excitedly.

A chill ran up my spine. My grandmother’s lullaby was another private memory I’d never mentioned.

“Did he tell you anything else?” I asked.

My son nodded. “He knows lots of funny stories! Like when you got stuck under the table playing hide and seek!”

I couldn’t help but smile at that true memory, though I’d never told anyone outside the family.

As we put the photos away, I wondered about Oscar. Was he just imaginary, or something more? For now, the mystery was enough to both puzzle and comfort me.

As weeks passed, I couldn’t stop thinking about Oscar and the stories he’d shared with my son. I needed to talk to someone, so I brought it up with my sister during a visit.

We were having coffee on her porch when I nervously explained everything. My sister listened with wide eyes, then laughed.

"Sounds like someone's been watching too many ghost movies!"

she teased.

I laughed too, relieved to share my worries. But then she grew serious.

“You know, it could be something,” she said. “Remember how Grandma always said she’d watch over us? Maybe Oscar is just… a friendly reminder.”

The idea of a family spirit watching over us was both comforting and strange. Could that really be it?

I talked to more family members over the next few days. Some laughed it off, while others thought it might be real.

My mom called one night after I texted her about it.

"Honey, kids often see things we can't,"

she said gently.

"Maybe it's just a phase, or maybe it's something beautiful we're not meant to fully understand."

In the end, I realized it was okay not to have all the answers. What mattered most was making sure my son felt safe and loved, whether Oscar was imaginary or something more.

As I tucked my son into bed and listened to him chat happily with Oscar, I felt more at peace. Life’s mysteries don’t always need solving. As long as there was laughter and love, I could accept the uncertainties.

After all the wondering and questions, I settled into a kind of uneasy acceptance. Maybe Oscar was just one of those odd parts of childhood that doesn’t quite make sense but somehow feels right. I never found clear answers, and that’s okay. Kids see the world in ways adults sometimes forget—full of magic and invisible friends.

Watching my son talk to Oscar, I saw how happy and comforted he seemed. His eyes shone with joy. I realized that in his world, Oscar was more than just imagination—he was a friend on special adventures.

I still got chills sometimes when Oscar’s name came up, but the laughter outweighed the mystery. When my son shared stories of what Oscar had done or said, it made me smile too.

One night, as I watched my son sleep peacefully, I whispered,

"Goodnight, Oscar, wherever you are."

It felt a little silly, but also right.

In the end, I decided not to dig deeper for answers. If Oscar was just a phase, he’d fade away naturally. If not, maybe he’d become a cherished childhood memory we’d look back on with fondness and wonder.

All that really mattered was my son’s happiness. Whether Oscar was a spirit, imagination, or something in between, it didn’t change the joy in our home. And that was enough for me.