We come in from the garage. He climbs the stool as I stand beside him at the sink. The water runs, washing grease and grime away. For a few moments, the only sounds are light breathing and running water falling on porcelain. A distant train whistle blows. I wrap my hands around his to help him scrub. His hands are so small, soft. Fragile—yet I can feel the strength to be.

He looks up at me, his deep brown eyes bright and honest.

“Thanks for sharing your bubbles, Daddy.”