“Choose one,” I hear myself say. I suck in my breath because I hadn’t known I was going to say it until after I did

I’m in Dollarama picking up some party stuff.

and 11-year-old Simchi is trudging along. Until the toys aisle. He disappears up ahead while I ponder prizes, considering which ones would make a smashing hide-and-seek game for the grandkids. When I meet up with Simchi, he’s fingering die-cast cars.

“Can we buy these?” Simchi asks.

These aren’t mere matchbox cars. They’re as big as half a doughnut, shining, replicated beauties of the ones whizzing by on the street. Metal doors that open. Wheels that roll when pulled back. And five dollars a piece. Plus tax.

I have 70-something dollars in my wallet. I could get the whole lot, all 14 different makes and models. Simchi looks on with hungry eyes.

I hesitate.

I see my child self in the toy store, needing all those Hello Kitty things, the one with the red bow and the one with the pink one, cutie bunnies, pink balloons and violet ones, and that coin purse that clicks when snapped shut. “Choose one,” my father says.