Emily raised her eyebrows and feigned a smile. I left her to eat her yogurt and got in the hospital's Starbucks line.
Behind me was a man in his 40s sifting through a bin of travel mugs. His in-patient parent lanyard swayed above the colorful choices as he examined them one by one. Our eyes met. His were lined with exhaustion.
"I'm trying to get my son to drink," he said. His voice quivered. His hands grasped a dark blue cup.
"I remember those days," I said, flashing back to buying calorie-laden milks and Gatorade and telling Emily they were delicious.
"If they're that good, you should drink them," she'd say. I wanted to yell, DRINK THEM OR WE CAN'T GO HOME! Hydration was essential. She didn't care.
"My son had a massive heart attack on the football field last week," he said. "He's 17." His eyes filled with tears. "We've been here a week and the doctors don't know what's going to happen."
Every part of me sympathized with his fear. In the middle of Emily's stem cell transplant, doctors scrambled to figure out the shading on her lungs. I wanted a guarantee she'd live. No one offered it.
"At least you're on the cardiac floor," I said, attempting to add a little levity. "When my daughter had cancer, we talked about the five-star accommodations up there -- the single rooms...the personal fridges."
The man smiled. And then began to cry.
"I don't know what to do," he said, wiping tears with the back of his hand. I saw a version of my former self in his glassy eyes -- a parent terrified their kid was going to die, keeping afloat only with caffeine and hope.
"See my daughter over there," I said, pointing to Emily scrolling TikTok. "She had a fifty-fifty chance of living. She had multiple ICU visits and almost died several times. I remember being where you are now."
Back then, I wanted a Magic 8 Ball to tell me Emily would be OK. That she'd live, have birthdays, go to college -- big moments that did happen -- all with time.
My instinct was to assure this dad his son would be OK. But I'd seen too much at this hospital to know that sometimes it isn't.
Yet 15 years after my family first entered these doors, I could promise, "You'll get through this. Sometimes you'll question if you can, but you will."
His face softened. Could he see his future self in my eyes?
When it was my turn to order, I slid my new friend's plastic cup in front of me. "No, I can't let you buy that!" he said. "It's $20!"
It was the best $20 I'd spent in a long time. I amused myself picturing his son's refusal to drink anything from a cup his father hoped had magical powers.
"Can I give you a hug?" he asked. He squeezed me tight and hung his head.
For a moment, time stood still. Two parents sharing a connection of heartache and hope. Wanting the best for each another and our kids. Holding onto the promise that time heals us -- and our kids -- in ways we questioned were even possible.