So, I put everything I had into destroying the foul blue beast. I kicked and punched in every direction, with my eyes closed. I even had a battle cry. A short while later, my mom opened the door and I ran out.

“Did you get the monster?” she demanded.

I nodded excitedly. Mom carefully entered the closet. She came back out holding something behind her back.

“Ayomide Bosia, you better go ahead! You defeated the monster!” she shouted.

“I did?”

“Child, you beat that thing so bad, he ran and left his feet!” she said as she revealed slippers made out of the Cookie Monster’s paws. I was beside myself. I came in for a closer look.

“I did it? I got him?”

“You did! I’m gonna keep these to remind me how strong and brave my child is, just like her ancestors,” she said.

I beamed proudly. Later, whenever I saw the Cookie Monster on Sesame Street, I wasn’t shook, because I knew it was just an impostor. I had fought and conquered the real one; my nightmares went away.

I was too young to put it together then: my mom had gone out and bought the slippers in anticipation of yet another nightmare. I was also too young to understand that the monsters would get bigger over time, and that they wouldn’t confine themselves to the closet.

“I think we have time for a quick breakfast,” Mom says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

“I’m not hungry.”

“C’mon, we can be mad at each other and eat. There’s no need to choose one or the other.” She signals for me to follow her into the kitchen, and I do. But I don’t commit to anything more than the doorway. She puts two raisin bagels into the toaster, pours two glasses of orange juice, and searches the fridge for the butter.

“I’m really not hungry. And I have to go or I’ll be late.”

She looks at her watch. “You have some time.”

She’s right. I can stay here for another fifteen minutes and still be on time for my first period. I feel myself growing frustrated. I admit, “It’s not about being late. I just don’t want to be here.”

“You keep taking that tone with me and you won’t be here or anywhere else,” she warns me. I feel a tingle spread throughout my body. My muscles tighten and my jaw clenches.

We lock eyes. Her hand goes up on her hip and her head is slightly tilted. She’s trying to figure me out. I stubbornly fold my arms across my chest, fearing that she will somehow weaken my resolve. The toaster pops up. The bagels are ready. They will get hard if we leave them there, and yet neither of us makes a move.