We are taking turns balancing a pineapple-shaped promotional stress toy on our heads. As with many of the tricks she has me perform, I am unsuccessful. The pineapple keeps sliding off.

“Maybe it’s because you have hair,” she remarks.

There’s no hint of self-pity. These are just the facts.

Facts:

She is six. I am thirty-four.

She has cancer. I do not.

She’s undergoing chemotherapy. I am not.

I have hair. She does not.

Life is unfair.

Fact.

“I think it’s because I have a weird-shaped head,” I reply.

“Okay. Then I’ll give you…ninety-nine more chances!” she exclaims.

I mock-grimace. She giggles.

Something to mend your Heart.