My 5 year old daughter asked me why “Mr. Tom” only comes at night when I am sleeping – I don’t know any Toms, so I set up a camera in her room and waited

Benjamin stood on the porch with the look of a man who hadn’t slept in days and wasn’t entirely sure he deserved to be there.
He clutched a small teddy bear, as if afraid it might disappear.
Ellie rushed at him like a small hurricane of happiness. He staggered back a step, but he caught her, holding her in his arms as he closed his eyes.
I stood in the doorway, watching this old, tired, sick, and stubborn man, holding my daughter as if she were the most precious thing in the world.
Something inside me softened.
They haven’t disappeared. They haven’t been completely forgiven.
He loosened a little.
Benjamin looked up at me from over Ellie’s head.
I stepped aside in the doorway.
“Come in,” I said. “I’ll make coffee.”
He nodded cautiously, like someone who knew better than to push his luck.
Ellie had already grabbed his hand and was dragging him toward the couch at full speed, telling him the whole emotional story of Gerald the rabbit and asking him persistently if Mr. Tom believed stuffed animals had real feelings.
Benjamin’s face lit up completely.
The scariest thing about this whole ordeal wasn’t the shadow outside my daughter’s window.
It was how close I’d come to destroying a dying grandfather’s chance at loving his grandson.