I hated that.
Before Eli became sick, I had been proud of managing our household independently. We didn't have much money, but I paid our bills and made sure my son had what he needed.
Now I was constantly asking for extensions, explaining circumstances, and filling out forms.
I learned that there were people at the hospital whose job involved helping families navigate financial and practical difficulties. The social worker helped me explore available support, and I began accepting assistance I would once have been embarrassed to request.
Wade never tried to take over those responsibilities.
He didn't offer to pay everything.
He didn't tell me what decisions to make.
But he noticed when ordinary problems were wearing me down.
One morning, my car wouldn't start in the hospital parking lot.
I returned upstairs frustrated and exhausted.
Wade was sitting on the floor with Eli, explaining why the green pickup had been disqualified from an imaginary race.
He looked up.
"Everything all right?"
I sighed.
"My car's dead."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Battery?"
"I have no idea."
Wade nodded.
"Want somebody to take a look?"
I hesitated.
"That would cost money."
He smiled.
"Looking doesn't."
I studied him.
"Are you sure?"
"Ma'am, I work on motorcycles for a living. I can at least tell you whether it's something simple or whether you need a proper repair shop."
I agreed.
Later, with my permission, he checked the vehicle and helped me arrange an appropriate repair. He explained what the technician had found in plain language so I understood what I was paying for.
There was nothing theatrical about it.
No enormous gesture.
No dramatic announcement that he had saved us.
He simply helped me solve one ordinary problem on a day when ordinary problems felt impossible.
When I thanked him, he shrugged.
"Everybody needs a hand sometimes."
I smiled.
"Even you?"
He looked down.
For a second, the familiar sadness returned.
Then he said, "Especially me."
I wanted to ask what he meant.
But I was beginning to understand that Wade carried a story he wasn't ready to share.
So I let him keep it.
In August, Eli asked me whether Wade was part of our family.
The question came while I was helping him organize his toy cars.
There were so many now that we had begun keeping them in separate containers. Some belonged to Eli before he became sick. Others had been brought by the hospital's child-life team, relatives, or Wade.
My son picked up the blue car.
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"Is Wade family?"
I looked at him.