“Mom, what’s wrong?”
“I wish we had Daddy back.”
“Oh, me too, Mom. Me, too. I miss him so much.”
I hugged her and tears streamed down her face. She sniffed several times and asked for a Kleenex. I brought one to her, she looked up, and asked, “Will you die, too?”
This is where I struggle. Of course I will die. And of course that is not what she wants to hear, nor will it serve any purpose to remind her of this.
I swallow. “No, Mom. I won’t die.”
Mom is assured. Me, not so much.