Several years ago, I was getting ready for work when my oldest son, Jack, walked into the bathroom as I was shaving. Just five years old at the time, he stood next to me for a while pretending that he, too, was getting rid of the “stubble” on his cheeks. But then he stopped pretending and began gently touching the scars that cover my torso.

These are the deep red scars, with ridges and lumps that traverse my stomach. These are the scars that remind me of all I went through and would rather forget. They’re the scars that even today I avoid looking at because they’re just too painful.

But on this day Jack traced those scars with his little finger. What he said next changed how I saw everything.