You stroke Penny's hair and curl your pinky around hers, promising to help her draw a horse later. It's a luxury you treasure in your fishbowl of a home - the occasional stolen moments working alongside Penny's crayons, Leo's laptops, or Alex's law books. You hold those times tighter now, amid conspiracies and assassination attempts, aware what two inches to the left would have taken from you, would have stolen from your children, and robbed from the country.
Alex is suggesting she and the kids move to Camp David temporarily, and that shocks you. Can't she tell that life in the public eye is difficult, and family time is your glue? Doesn't she realize that she keeps your heart beating almost as much as the surgeons at George Washington University; that the children hold you together more than the stitches on your chest?
You need your family to do your job, to keep you sane while you keep the country safe. But you need your family safe. And happy. That's the most important thing.
You clutch Penny's unfinished drawing as you watch their faces get smaller in the air until you can no longer see individuals. It feels like your heart is flying away to Camp David with them.
A father walked out of the White House with his family; a President returned, alone.