When I was a child I had a nightmare, and in the morning, I

Claire Denis, the poet of cinema who often explores the shadows of the human heart, once revealed a haunting memory: “When I was a child I had a nightmare, and in the morning, I asked my mother and father, ‘If I kill someone, would you still love me?’ My parents were very preoccupied with this, but I think I’m not the only one to ask for that — not love, but absolute fidelity.” These words, strange and unsettling, are in truth a cry for the deepest assurance the human soul seeks: the certainty that love does not vanish, even when the self is at its most broken, most sinful, or most unworthy.

The ancients, too, pondered this question. In the myths of Greece, Orestes killed his mother, yet even as the Furies pursued him, he sought forgiveness, sought to know if there was any fidelity left to bind him to the human world. In the scriptures of many traditions, men and women ask the same: “If I fall, if I err, if I betray, will I still be loved?” For the longing of the child in Denis’ story is the longing of all mankind — to know if there exists a bond beyond condition, a loyalty that endures even in the face of darkness.

History gives us examples both terrible and beautiful. Think of St. Augustine, who as a young man lived recklessly, chasing desire and ambition. His mother, Monica, wept and prayed for him unceasingly, never abandoning him even when he seemed lost. At last, he turned, transformed by her unwavering fidelity. Here we see the truth Denis points toward: that what saves us is not conditional approval, but the steadfastness of love that remains when all else fails. Without such fidelity, the human heart is left adrift, haunted by its own failures.

Denis’ words also reveal a deeper truth about the child’s heart. A child does not merely seek affection; they test its limits, asking, “Will you love me even if I am unworthy?” This is why her nightmare led her to such a startling question. For children, as for adults, the greatest fear is abandonment — that love is fragile, that it will break when tested. To hear, “Yes, we will love you still,” is to be given the courage to live, to fail, to try again. To hear silence or uncertainty is to plant in the soul the terror of conditional worth.

Yet Denis wisely distinguishes between ordinary love and absolute fidelity. Many will love when it is easy; few will remain when it is hard. Fidelity is the highest form of love: not blind to faults, not approving of every deed, but remaining present, unyielding, even in the face of disappointment. It is the love of a parent for a child, a true friend for another, or the devotion of those who bind themselves in covenant. Fidelity is not excusing evil — it is refusing to abandon the person, even when confronting the evil within them.

The lesson for us is this: we must both seek and give such fidelity. Seek it, for it anchors the soul; give it, for it sustains others. Practically, this means showing up for those we love, not only when they succeed, but when they stumble, fail, or even wound us. It means saying with our presence: “I do not approve of what you have done, but I will not forsake you. You are more than your failure.” In this way, we give others the courage to face themselves honestly, knowing they are not alone.

So remember, O seekers of wisdom: Claire Denis’ childhood question is not strange at all, but the very question of the human condition. “Will you still love me, even then?” To answer with absolute fidelity is the highest calling of love, and to live so that we can both give and receive such fidelity is the way to bind the world together, even in its darkest hours. For when fidelity holds, no nightmare — not even the nightmare of betrayal, failure, or guilt — can sever the eternal bond between souls.