My niece had always been a happy kid. She’s the type to capture your attention as soon as she walked in the room. Friendly, well-mannered, and polite, the potential for a bright future was secured.

The flame of her candle became dim though when father time carried her to the age of thirteen. Crushes on others and staying up late were expected behaviors at that age but my niece strode on another path.

Instead of the teenage angst and rebellion, my niece became withdrawn, silent, and almost lifeless. Friends were turned away and what used to be a happy household became a mourner to her change.

A family trip was made where nature devoured the flesh of our city life. Woods left and right stood mighty while the rivers ran silent but deep. Never did I expect that it would be the last time I’d ever hear the infectious laughter of my niece. Not even the flame of the bonfire, no matter how wild it danced, could sear that image in my mind.

This happened two days before her thirteenth birthday, before everything carried the heaviness of so many unanswered questions.

The weirdest change of all though? The start of her clown collection.

I was tasked to watch over her during the summer as her parents went away for a business trip. My soul craved the jovial greeting she used to give me as soon as I walked in the door, now, only the air gave me warmth.

From an outside view no one would think that her room would hold so many clown themed objects. Clown masks, posters, figurines, and clothing littered her space. The red and blue color of her collection gave life to the dullness of her existence.

A call from my sister occupied the line one day and we chatted a while before she asked for her daughter. I carried the phone towards the kitchen as we had been in the middle of dinner but the sight that greeted me stopped me on my tracks.

In the midst of the feast there sat my niece donning a clown mask. The message was clear then…no conversation between mother and daughter would happen.

My heart broke for her in ways that it never did for past lovers. In my attempt to help, to open the crevices of what was left of her being, I uttered in a jokingly manner a sentence that gave me a guttering answer.

“Monsters aren’t afraid of clowns you know.”

I sang in a soft tone as I sat down on her bed. Her little hands kept busy with a clown toy that soon halted.

A pause.

An Eye to eye contact.

A defeated voice.

“No…but daddy is.”