My seven-year-old sits up in his hospital bed. He raises his hand out of habit from school, nearly knocking the baseball cap from his bald head.
“Dad, when I’m a boyfriend, I’m gonna give my girlfriend lots of googly eyes.” He looks at me expectantly. The earnest discussion I’ve rehearsed can wait. Heartsick, I force a smile.
“Great plan. Girls love googly eyes.”
“Yeah, I thought they did.”
“You’ll need a truck to deliver them, though.”
“Beep, beep, beep,” he says, grinning.
“A dump truck dumping twenty million googly eyes on my girlfriend’s driveway.”
We laugh until we’re crying.