He simply couldn’t ignore his son’s pleas any longer.

One day, he went out.

And he bought them.

The Legos.

On his way home, his head swarmed with thoughts about his son’s reaction.

The way his child’s face would light up bright as holiday fireworks when he received the bag of the small blocks. 

The vision of that smile gave him one himself.

And he was right.

The boy bounced like the small rubber balls you get from the little soccer game at the arcade.

He eagerly took the bag of blocks.

And he ran up to his room.

Not a word of thanks was uttered.

He just ran with it.

But getting to see his son happy seemed like thanks enough. 

Then it didn’t.

Everytime he would go up to the boy’s room to tuck him in,

He would step on one of the small legos.

They weren’t even visible through the thick fibers of the rug.

And somehow, everytime, he managed to step on one. 

Later, he heard his son scream and cry from the lego minefield of a bedroom. 

He rushed to the racket. 

The lego house his son had spent the last month building was in pieces on the bedroom floor. 

The father wondered what happened.

Had he accidentally stepped on it when he said goodnight the previous day?

He couldn’t have, he would’ve felt it.

But maybe he didn’t, maybe he kicked it over.

He tried to focus on fixing the house instead.

His son cried, and cried. 

His hands in his face.

His father scrambled to rebuild the house, over and over again, he would step on the legos.

The urgency in his movements caused his once graceful steps to grow sloppy, and he would slide as he walked, impaling his feet with the legos.

He ignored the aching sensation.

Hurriedly, he put the pieces back into place.

Making the lego house whole once more.

He placed a hand on his son’s knee, and the boy opened his eyes.

His wailing finally stopped.

His father smiled. 

A small, sad, exhausted smile. 

But a smile.

He leaned on the ground beside his boy while they both admired the strong lego house on the floor of the boy's bedroom.

The man’s once white socks were torn and a bright red at the bottom of the foot.

And through the rips in the socks, was the torn flesh of his feet, glistening as fresh blood spilled out of the wounds.

But despite his torn socks and flesh.

Despite the stinging pain in his feet.

And despite the fact that walking would now become a painful chore.

He was okay with it.

Because he saw the bright smile on his son’s face.

Heard the giggling escape his small body.

And he watched as the tears dried on his chubby face.

Although the blood on his feet didn’t dry, and the stream did not stop.

He didn’t care.