“I hate it,” he whispered. “I don’t want every little thing to be important.”
He looked at the plastic game.
Then he said the words I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
“Sometimes I just want stuff to be stuff.”
My heart broke.
For months, I’d been treating every ordinary moment as something that needed to be preserved.
Chris had been watching every movement, terrified something might go wrong.
We’d become so focused on the future that we’d forgotten our son was still here.
He wanted his dad to shout when their team scored.
He wanted me to argue with referees.
He wanted ordinary family jokes.
He wanted to laugh without someone immediately checking whether he was okay.
He wanted to be a child.
Not a patient whose every moment required special attention.
Chris reached for Ethan’s hand.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
Ethan shrugged.
