Part 3: Just Stuff
Chris leaned closer.
“Why, Captain?”
Ethan looked at us.
“Because I wanted you to have fun with me.”
He paused.
“Not fun because of me. Fun with me.”
My eyes filled with tears.
He went on quietly.
“Everybody acts like everything has to be special now because I’m going to die.”
Neither of us moved.
“I hate it,” he whispered. “I don’t want every little thing to be important.”
He looked at the plastic game.
Then he said the words I will remember for the rest of my life.
“Sometimes I just want stuff to be stuff.”
My heart broke.
For months, I had been treating every ordinary moment as something that needed to be preserved.
Chris had been watching every movement, terrified something might go wrong.
We had become so focused on the future that we’d forgotten our son was still here.
He wanted his dad to shout when their team scored.
He wanted me to argue with referees.
He wanted ordinary family jokes.
He wanted to laugh without someone immediately checking whether he was okay.
He wanted to be a child.
Not a patient whose every moment demanded special attention.
Chris reached for Ethan’s hand.
“I’m sorry, Captain.”
Ethan shrugged.
“I know you’re sad. I’m sad too.”
Then he added, “I just don’t want to spend the rest of my time being watched.”
I placed my phone facedown on the couch.
Ethan noticed.
For a moment, he simply looked at me.
Then he smiled.
Chris squeezed his hand.
“You’re right, buddy. I’ve been watching the clock instead of enjoying the game.”
Ethan brightened.
“So you’re admitting I’m right?”
Chris raised an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not.”
Ethan laughed.
“Too late! You basically said it!”
For the first time in months, the three of us laughed together without fear interrupting the moment.
Someone knocked on the door.
Chris opened it.
Leo stood in the hallway.
For several seconds, neither man spoke.
Then Chris asked, “How’s your son?”
Leo looked surprised.
“Home,” he answered. “Driving his mother crazy. He keeps leaving his shoes in the hallway.”
Chris smiled.
A real smile.
“That’s wonderful, Leo. I mean it.”
The two men looked at each other.
There was no dramatic speech.
No long explanation.
But something shifted between them.
Chris had finally allowed himself to feel happy for another family without comparing their good fortune to our own suffering.
Leo nodded gently.
Then he walked away.
A few minutes later, I turned to Ethan.
“Ready to go home, sweetheart?”
He glanced through the window toward the field.
I stopped myself.
Once again, I was making decisions before asking what he wanted.
So I tried again.
“What would you like to do?”
Ethan considered the question.
“Ten more minutes.”
Chris smiled.
“Ten more minutes.”
We went back to our seats.
This time, nobody announced our names.
There was no camera.
No giant screen showing our faces.
No special ceremony.
Just an ordinary football game.
And it was exactly what Ethan wanted.
Chris immediately started complaining about a terrible play.
Ethan laughed.
“Dad, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“Excuse me? I’ve been watching football longer than you’ve been alive!”
“That doesn’t mean you understand it!”
Then a referee threw a yellow flag.
I jumped to my feet.
“Oh, come on!”
Ethan burst out laughing.
“Mom! You don’t even know what happened!”
“I know injustice when I see it!”
Several nearby fans applauded.
Chris laughed.
Ethan laughed harder.
My hand moved automatically toward my phone.
I wanted to record his smile.
Preserve his laughter.
Save another piece of the afternoon.
But then I stopped.
