"They had so much fun tonight!" I remarked to Norman. We were having spiced mulled cider, relaxing from a grueling night of trick-or-treating, ghosts and goblins, and the awe and joy of two little boys who got to meet the "real" Batman and Robin at the mall.

Breathing in the aroma of the cider, I looked around at the disaster of our living room, strewn with costumes, candy papers, and leftover bits and pieces of treasured loot from the night as the kittens batted small balls of paper in another endless game of "pretend it's a mouse."

"Mommy, can I have these Skittles?" Eliott pleads, looking up with that wide-eyed smile, hoping he can enjoy just a few more bites before bed. I hesitate, my face turning hot and my eyes beginning to burn as I think of times I had said "No" to Ethan.

Ethan loved Halloween. Dying just before his third birthday, he only really enjoyed one. It was rainy and windy, and he was dressed as his beloved Superman, just as this time Evan and Eliott were dressed as Spiderman. Running from house to house, uncaring of the rain and wind, overjoyed at this largesse of candy and goodwill pouring out from the neighbors and friends he knew. I well remember the joy on his face as he ate his first Snickers bar, chewy and chocolaty and peanuty, all at once.

Once home that night, Ethan sat in front of our full-length mirror, watching himself chew, chocolate smeared on his face and hands. Uncaring, he dug into his little orange pumpkin, the kind with the black carry-strap seen everywhere. Licking his lips, his eyes looked at me and pleaded for just one more piece . . . just one more.

How I wish I had said yes, that I had let this son who was soon to die overindulge in every bite, every taste and melting moment of that night. Like other times--when, attempting to be good parents, we had stopped our sons' overindulgence of various activities--I stopped him from the potential tummy ache. Just one more "Yes" I can never say to Ethan . . .

I looked again at Eliott's round face, his hopeful smile and eager body all tuned to hear me say that magic word. Smiling, I hold his face in my hands and whisper "Yes" in his ear. Joy breaks over his face, turning my little imp into a glorious happy almost-four-year-old, busy with this moment, right here and right now, and not past Halloweens or dead brothers.

I will deal with tummy aches and a sleepless night if I need to. This son will have the joy of that one last piece of candy before bed, lest he too die without knowing the joy of a mommy whispering "Yes" and extra hugs and kisses. This time, I know what can happen; this time, I can indulge; this time, I say "Yes."

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