EDITOR’S NOTE: This is one of my stories from the exploding cat book, and it’s written in the 3rd person rather than the first person. This little literary technique allows me some emotional distance from the subject matter, which helps keep me from crying on my keyboard. Hope you enjoy this little allegory about a man who learns to prioritize.

Do you have your own encouraging story about fatherhood or growing up? We love to hear it! Please see the submissions page (its really easy to send us a story).

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The man knew he was dying.

Knew because of the tubes and the blinking monitors and the white-coated people who clicked in and out of his room with clipboards. Knew because of the plastic bracelet on his wrist and the pills and the bad food and the full-body hurt. Knew because his wife was sitting next to his bed holding his hand, and her hand felt oddly warm.

He, a captain of industry, the man they called The Producer down at the firm because of his dogged determination and long work hours, the man to whom nothing was casual or frivolous (he always fastened every button on every shirt), this man who wasted nothing, was wasting away.

In the late afternoon, his two grown children walked quietly into his room, bent in turn to kiss his forehead, and then sat in chairs. His wife helped him sit up and he tried to put on an air of health and vigor.

“How are your stock investments doing, son?” the dying man asked, clearing his throat first.

“It doesn’t matter, Dad,” his boy said. Then he leaned forward. “Do you remember when I was five and you taught me to skip stones down at the lake?”

“No, I don’t. Hey, did that refinance go through on your home? You know, you just have to get that interest rate down.”

The boy shook his head. “I haven’t really thought about that, Dad. It doesn’t really matter. But remember the day when you taught me to ride a bike? I think my knees are still skinned.” The boy rubbed his knees and laughed, but the old man only scowled and the boy slumped back in his chair.

The man turned his attention to his daughter. “And you, miss,” he said. “You’re almost done with your master’s degree, aren’t you?”

“Oh, Dad,” the girl said, reaching into her purse. “That doesn’t matter right now, but I brought pictures of when I was a swan in my school play and you came to watch.” She held the photo out, her hands shaking a little, but her father just looked away.

And so the tension rose. The serious man at the end of his serious life asking serious questions to his children, his silly children who seemed drowning in frivolous sentiment.

Later, alone with his wife, the doubts crept in. Awkward questions hung in the air.

“I don’t understand,” the man said, taking a single breath between each fragmented sentence. “I’ve worked so hard for them. Given them everything. Paid for their degrees. Pushed them. Made them into successful adults. Now I’m lying here (he grabbed the rails of his bed and tried to sit up). All they want to talk about are the insignificant moments, the pointless times. They dwell on the trivial. Why? They have no idea what matters.” And his wife sobbed softly and held his cold hand while he drifted off into a morphine-induced sleep.

A sniffle woke the man. A tug at the bed covers. A small voice.

“Daddy, I can’t sleep,” the little girl said.

And so he crawled quietly out of bed and took his young daughter’s tiny hand and led her downstairs. Passing a mirror on the landing, he caught in the reflection of himself the startled gaze of a young man. The hospital, the tubes and monitors, the sappy nostalgic grown children, even the dying—all just a dream. As he poured the chocolate milk and arranged the cookies, the man thought deeply.

It hadn’t been a dream, he realized. It had been a nightmare.

Then came a soft thumping down the stairs and the glowing play of a Buzz Lightyear flashlight on the walls.

“Hey, cool, what’s going on?” the little boy asked, rubbing his eyes.

Hours later, the man’s wife came downstairs to put on the breakfast coffee and found chaos in the living room. The furniture had been rearranged and there were sheets draped over everything. Cushions pulled off the couch. Crumbs on the floor. Spilled milk. An open Dr. Seuss book. And from under the makeshift tent, the dying glow of a child’s toy flashlight.

She knelt and pulled up the corner of a dangling Beauty and the Beast blanket. “Honey?” she called to the biggest lump under the crazy-quilt covers. “You’re going to be late for work.”

The man stirred. Wiggled his toes. Opened one eye.

“It doesn’t matter,” he whispered.

And then, wrapped in the arms and legs of his small children and with his head on a stuffed giraffe, the man fell peacefully back to sleep.