And the entire living room erupted in laughter.
Three weeks after Tucker's birthday, Angie called me with a voice I hadn't heard before.
It was trembling.
But there was something different beneath the fear.
“Bear, can you come over?”
I looked toward my motorcycle.
“Is everything okay?”
“I want to tell you in person.”
My stomach tightened.
“Angie—”
“Please. Just come.”
I drove to her apartment.
Ron was already there.
That frightened me even more.
He stood near the kitchen doorway, holding a cup of coffee and looking strangely emotional.
Tucker was sitting on the sofa with Captain Chomp.
Angie stood beside him.
Her eyes were red.
I stopped just inside the door.
“What happened?”
She covered her mouth.
For a moment, she couldn't speak.
Then Tucker looked up.
“Bear?”
I turned toward him.
He smiled.
“The doctors say my monster's getting smaller.”
I stared.
Angie began crying.
She explained that the latest scans had shown a substantial response to treatment. The medical team was encouraged by the improvement, although Tucker still needed additional care and close monitoring.
I listened carefully.
I asked her to repeat the explanation.
She did.
Then I looked toward Tucker.
He was smiling so proudly that his whole face seemed to shine.
“Did you hear, Bear?”
I nodded.
“Yeah, buddy.”
He held up Captain Chomp.
“It's working!”
I felt my knees weaken.
Ron moved beside me.
He put a hand on my shoulder.
I tried to speak.
Nothing came out.
For months, I'd been afraid to imagine good news.
Now it had arrived, cautiously and imperfectly, in the form of a medical report showing progress.
I knelt beside Tucker.
“That's wonderful news.”
He nodded.
“Does that mean I can ride a motorcycle?”
I laughed so hard that tears spilled down my face.
“Nice try.”
He grinned.
Angie was crying.
Ron was crying.
I was crying.
And Tucker was staring at us as though every adult in the room had completely lost their mind.
Finally, he shook his head.
“You guys cry a lot.”
Ron wiped his face.
“Occupational hazard, buddy.”
Tucker considered that.
Then he asked for a cookie.
It was the most ordinary question in the world.
And somehow, that made the moment even more beautiful.
The encouraging scans did not end Tucker's treatment immediately.
There were still appointments.
Still difficult days.
Still periods when Angie worried about every symptom.
His doctors explained that continued treatment and follow-up remained important, and nobody described a favorable scan as a permanent guarantee.
We listened.
We tried not to get ahead of ourselves.