But it wasn’t Emily that made Daniel’s heart stop.
It was what was standing on top of her.
Peter.
His son.
The fragile child doctors said must remain strapped into his wheelchair to avoid injury.
The wheelchair—the silver structure Daniel both hated and loved—stood empty, shoved against the refrigerator, its colorful cushions looking useless and sad.
Peter was standing.
Standing on Emily’s stomach.
Wobbling dangerously, his tiny feet sinking into the fabric of her uniform.
He wore striped pajamas and a crooked chef’s hat.
His chubby arms were raised in victory.
His mouth—usually closed in a silent cry or bored pout—was wide open in a perfect O of joy.
The child was laughing.
Laughing as he pressed one foot into Emily’s belly, while she held his ankles with firm gentleness, singing:
“Up you go, champion!
Up goes the giant!
Make the ground shake!”
Daniel felt the floor move beneath him.
His brain rejected what his eyes saw.
Impossible.
The reports. The specialists. The scans.
He can’t do that. He has no strength.
He’s going to fall. He’s going to break himself.
But his eyes saw something else.
A child conquering Everest in the middle of a kitchen.