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By the time we took Dale up to his room to settle him for the night, he was much calmer, although he insisted that Henry stay with him at all times. Even when Henry was lying beside him on top of the blanket, Dale still needed reassurance that his dog was not going away and was feeling all right. I had an idea and whispered to Jamie, who then said in Henry's deep voice, "Dale, I'm feeling much better now. Please take my Band-aid off."
Jamie gently removed the Band-aid, saying, "Dale, I'll put this in the trash—we won't need it any more."
Dale's face immediately flooded with relief and Jamie left me to say goodnight to him.
"Dale, give Henry his night-time kiss," I told him. "It's time to sleep."
He turned and did so, saying, "Night, night, Henry. Love you. See you in the morning."
I tucked Dale in and kissed him, saying, "Goodnight, Dale," as I cautiously turned to leave.
Then came his quiet, upset little voice, wanting more reassurance: "Mummy, Dale loves his dog."
I didn't want to make any more of a fuss and carried on, saying, "Yes, darling, and Henry loves Dale."
As I opened the bedroom door wider, Dale repeated softly, "Mummy, Dale loves his dog."
"Yes, that's good," I replied, still trying to leave. Then I stopped dead in my tracks as his next words hit me.
"And Dale loves his mummy."
Just five little words, yet I was numb, paralyzed with shock. Then somehow my brain started to function again, although my heart was pounding—I desperately didn't want to get this wrong. I turned around and knelt down beside Dale's bed, where I gave him a cautious and gentle hug, telling him, "Mummy loves you, too. And Daddy loves you. Goodnight, Dale."
His sweet, small voice replied, "And Dale loves Daddy."
I kissed him on the head, quietly left the room and wept—copious, silent tears. Through this mist I noticed Jamie, who had been waiting on the landing to see whether Dale had settled. We just gazed at each other, disbelieving. Then he took me in his arms as I continued to weep.
