Dad: I can’t seem to walk out of this room. What time is it?
Elizabeth: It’s almost 5.
Dad: I’d be getting home about now. Silvia would probably pick up a pizza or some Chinese because she got busy with the boys after school and didn’t have time to cook. Toby would have a picture that he drew that he’d want me to look at. And Matt would want me to test him on his math.
Elizabeth: You made the right decision. The only one you could.
Dad: We woke up this morning everything was white. They were so happy. We all got to stay home.
Elizabeth: It may not seem like it, but I know what you’re feeling. I understand what you’re feeling.
Dad: I’m sorry, doctor, but you don’t know what I’m feeling. You don’t have any idea. I don’t even know.
Elizabeth: My husband, his name was Mark. He died– My God, I was about to say last year. It was only six months ago. I tried to pretend once Mark was gone, that I could pull myself up, continue like normal. But it doesn’t work like that. You see, you can’t run away from it. It’s like this big, relentless wave that you have to ride. But in riding it, somehow you hold on to what you’ve lost, and you find a way to go on without shutting off. It’s not easy, but you do it. I know someday soon when you look into your child’s eyes all you will see are the beautiful things that live on in him.