He was only a boy, but his questions were larger than the room they sat in.
Why was I born, he asked his mother, if I cannot play with my toys all night? If I cannot ride my bike all day? If I cannot eat chocolate and cake whenever I want? Why must I do things I don't like?
She listened quietly. Once, when she was his age, she had asked herself the same questions. She had waited many years, and no one had ever given her answers.
So instead of replying, she asked: If you play with your toys all night, will you still have the strength to ride your bike in the morning?
He thought for a moment, then shook his head.
And if you never go to school, who will you tell about your toys and your bike?
His eyes softened. My friends would not be there.
And if you eat chocolate and cake every day, how would you find space for ice cream, or tarts, or pies?
He smiled faintly at that.
She drew him close. We cannot hold everything at once. The more we take of one thing, the less room there is for another. That is why life gives us time in pieces: a little night for toys, a little day for bikes, a little sweetness for the tongue, and a little space for what is still unknown.
He leaned against her arm, no longer searching for an answer. The questions were still there, but they felt lighter now, as if they belonged to both of them.
And perhaps that is enough: not to have all the answers, but to find someone willing to carry the questions with you.