How many kids do I have? Two.
End of story.
Not really. Because after I say I have two kids, the next question is, “Oh, how old are they?”
“My daughter is 17 and my son … well, my son died last year when he was 17. So he should be 18 … but he’s not. He’ll always be 17, I guess.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” they say.
“Thanks.”
I wait for additional questions. And here’s what separates “what I need” from “what I want.” I need people to ask about my son. I need to hear his name. I need to tell you about him. Our conversation shouldn’t end with me saying “thanks.” Here’s how I’d like it to continue.
“What was his name?”
“Jonas.”
“What was he like?”
And everything I say after this point is healing. I want you to meet Jonas through my eyes, through my words. I want to describe him in detail, from his goofy sense of humor to his love of Guatemala. I may go on and on … and listening to me brag about my son is one of the greatest gifts you can give me.
Just start by asking me his name. If nothing else, ask me his name.
