‘Thank you for saving our son’s life tonight,’ I thought to myself. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save his brother.’

I had wished I could say those words out loud to my husband tonight. In the quickest and swiftest of moments, as I leaned over to scoop food into the dog bowl, I looked up to see my husband’s face, stoic but terrified.

“Is he choking?” I asked, a swift thrust of the palm of his hand hit the back of my five-year-old. With time stopped, a chunk of chicken tender fell to the plate and his tears stared to fall. The color came back to my husband’s face and I touched them both and said, ‘It’s ok. We’re ok.’

Four years ago in a hospital room so full, I could barely see my baby, the pastor’s hand on my shoulder, my hand locked into my husband’s, he said through tears, “You’ve done such a good job buddy. It’s ok.”

Hands pulled away from the bed and people shuffled out of the room. ‘It’s ok’ had the opposite meaning from the one I uttered this evening.

It’s ok. It’s our ok. Two boys, two lives, two parents. One very different result.