The house is quiet. I can hear gentle snoring, the creak of a bedspring as one of the kids rolls over in their sleep. The pipes ping gently as they warm the house.
On a day like today, with the tragic shooting in Connecticut, I felt fortunate to be rehearsing a play about love, and the power of family and kindness.
I got home from rehearsal just before bedtime, and hugged my wife. My daughter came out in her pajamas and gave me a big, long hug, saying “I love you Dad”. I held onto her, and told her I loved her too. With a big heavy sigh full of teenager-growing-up-too-quickly she squeezed me one final time, and kissed my cheek, said “G’night. Sleep good”, and went off to bed.
10 minutes later, sitting with my 12-year old as he was about to read himself to sleep, we quietly discussed how sad those families in Connecticut must be right now. After we sat for a minute in silence he looked at me. “When I grow up and become a psychologist”, he said, “I hope I can help someone to not do stuff like that.”
I hugged him close. “I think that’d be a pretty great thing, buddy.”
And now I lay in bed, and I listen to the quiet of the house.
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