Bruce sighs, because in the dream he was just having, Eddie was five. The little boy was sitting on his lap, on the couch, and Bruce was reading Winnie-the-Pooh to him. Eddie was leaning against his father’s chest, and the sensation of that weight—the complete trust and lack of inhibition with which the boy relaxed every ounce of his body into his father’s—was one of the things that made parenthood unmissable.
