Once we’re out of the house, Will becomes talkative again. “I like the birds, and that thing you use to scoop ice cream…” he says as we pull back into the garage.
“The ice cream spoon,” I say.
“It’s not a spoon,” he corrects, “it’s wood and you use it to scoop ice cream.”
“That’s an ice cream spoon too, Will.”
“Oh,” he says, making me laugh.
“You’ve had enough sugar, so we’re having a real meal tonight.”
“Steak?” His eyes light up at the word.
“You want steak?”
He nods, and that little serious boy is gone. After crying his heart out, he’s back to the Will he probably always was—but all this grief and those tears made it hard for him to show it. I’ll do everything I can to make sure he doesn’t lose himself again.
“Steak it is!”
We start planning breakfast even though din
