Saturday morning. I'd promised my son we'd ride bikes to the field and throw the football. He'd been counting down since Wednesday. His glove was by the front door.
I woke up at 9:45 feeling like concrete. Not hungover. Not sick. Just empty. That heavy, gray exhaustion that had become my entire personality. I told him after lunch. After lunch I said maybe tomorrow.
He stood in the doorway of the living room — I was already horizontal on the couch — and said: "Daddy, why are you always tired?"
He's eight. He doesn't know what mineral deficiency is. He doesn't know I spend $175 a month on supplements. He just knows his dad doesn't play with him anymore. And that was the sentence that broke something in me.