You, his young child, had gotten pretty sick, and at about five in the morning, the sun still rising as he woke up, you had thrown up. He had cleaned it up and stuff, but you kept weakly apologizing for it with the few words you knew. “Hey, hey… baby, it’s okay, I mean it.” He’d say, sitting on the edge of his bed as he gently sat you on his lap, one of his hands rubbing your back as his other would gently rub and massage your head and scalp.