For a moment, he seemed unable to answer.
Then he said quietly, "I used to."
My son nodded as though that explained everything.
He picked up the blue car.
"Well, now you give them to me."
Wade swallowed.
"Yeah, buddy."
He touched the side of the bed.
"Now I do."
After the birthday, something changed in me.
Until then, I had approached each day as a problem to survive.
I kept track of treatments, meals, symptoms, and appointments. I worried about finances, household responsibilities, and the possibility of another emergency. I measured progress in medical numbers and the length of time Eli could sit upright without becoming tired.
But the birthday reminded me that my son was still growing.
Time hadn't stopped simply because we were frightened of it.
He was five now.
He could count higher than before.
He had learned new words.
His imagination had become more elaborate, and he was developing the stubborn opinions of a child who wanted to make his own decisions.
He was still a little boy.
Not a diagnosis.
Not a chart.
Not a collection of laboratory results.
Wade seemed to see that more clearly than I did some days.
He noticed when Eli's jokes became more complicated. He celebrated when my son learned to write another letter of his name. He remembered which stories had made him laugh the previous week.
Once, Eli announced that he wanted to become a mechanic.
Wade nodded.
"Good profession."
I smiled.
"Just like you?"
My son shook his head.
"Better."
The biker looked offended.
"Better?"
Eli grinned.
"I'm going to fix rockets."
Wade scratched his beard.
"Well, that's a promotion."
My son laughed.
Then he announced that his rocket would have wheels so it could race on the moon.
Wade immediately began drawing a design on a piece of paper.
I watched them argue over whether the rocket needed headlights.
And for a little while, I allowed myself to imagine Eli growing up.
Not because I believed the future was guaranteed.
But because I was tired of letting fear steal every beautiful possibility before it arrived.
In May, Eli developed a fever that led to another frightening hospital evaluation.
I had been told repeatedly how important it was to respond quickly to certain symptoms during leukemia treatment. I followed the instructions his medical team had given us, but knowing what to do didn't make the experience less terrifying.
He was exhausted.
His little voice was barely audible.
The doctors examined him, ordered tests, and began the treatment and monitoring they considered necessary.
I sat beside him through the night.