He grabs my hand and pulls.
Boy: Dad, come on.
Me: Where are we going?
Boy: To the computer.
He says the first phrase all the time. Even when I always reply with the same follow-up question, he usually responds by repeating that first phrase.
He’s never offered a full reply to my question like he just did.
Sure. Let’s go.
That’s me, trying to mask the effects of all my insides being rocked by the sudden and unexpected realization that I finally had a conventional conversation with my son.
Seven years we waited for that. Nice.