My son came into my room, where I was lying half asleep, trying to keep still so my stomach would play nice.
"I brought you some toast," he said. "You should sit up and eat it."
I propped myself up on one elbow, eating was the last thing I wanted to do. I was ready to ask him to take it away, when I saw his face, so earnest and concerned. He had looked the same earlier, when he brought me a glass of ice water. "Okay, I'll try." I sat up, and took a bite of warm toast, hoping for both our sakes that it stayed down - what parent wants to disappoint their child?
He smiled as I chewed. Mmm... still warm... "Thank you," I said. "This is really good." He left the room, still smiling.
I slowly, carefully finished the toast, waiting patiently, one foot on the floor to get ready to run to the bathroom.
Except nothing happened. I finished the second piece of toast, and drank a little more water. I checked my email. I took my plate and glass to the kitchen, and cleaned up the mess. I took a bath and washed my hair, put on my makeup... When the blow dryer started, my son ran to the bathroom door.
"Are you okay?" He asked.
"I'm feeling much better, thanks." And I did feel much better. My stomach is still a little weird feeling, but I kept down the toast.
"I knew it," he said. "I knew the toast would help!" And he ran back to his room to his computer, confident that his toast had cured me.
And just maybe it did. :)