It was a bright, busy Saturday morning. We wandered through the mall, our son darting ahead, and our daughter nestled in our arms. As we walked into the LEGO store, their eyes lit up. They always loved playing with the loose bricks near the front.

I’d held off on buying a set since our son was born. He’d been too small for the tiny bricks. But now he was nearing three, and I thought maybe – just maybe – we could build something together. I chose a sleek maroon starfighter. Even if we fumbled through it, it’d be a fun way to spend the afternoon.

Just a few hours later, I was lying beneath fluorescent lights in the Intensive Care Unit. My heart had been racing above 150 beats per minute for over an hour. It wasn’t slowing down.

I didn’t know what was happening – if this seemingly ordinary day would become my last. It wasn’t dying that scared me. It was the possibility that I might never see our children grow up.

I texted my wife from the hospital bed: I’ve always wanted to tell our children I’d love them, no matter what. They were too young to understand it now. But if I couldn’t be there to say it myself, I hoped the message would find its way to them someday.

As it turned out, the spike in my heart rhythm was treatable and not life-threatening. I was discharged a day later, fazed but grateful.

A week passed.

And then, on another ordinary Saturday, my son and I built the starfighter.

I handled the instructions and nudged the bricks into place. He sat beside me, snapping on bits and pieces. He was restless, as any toddler would be, but every time I asked if he wanted to stop, he said no. He wanted to keep going. So did I.

Now the finished starfighter sits on a shelf in the living room, pointed towards the window, catching sunlight on its wings. Outside, the birds are singing. Inside, I hear the two of you laughing.