too.

Of the roughly 40，000 Americans suffering from Bell's palsy every year，most recover in several weeks. Other cases take a few months to heal. But after nine weeks of therapy，the doctor confessed she couldn't help Dad.

"I've never seen anything like this，" she told him after his final session. Then she handed him the bill.

Dad coped through humor. He occasionally grabbed erasable markers and drew an even-sided wide smile across his face. Other times，he practiced his Elvis impersonation，joking that his curled lips allowed him to perfect his performance of "Hound Dog".

By the time I entered fourth grade that September，Dad could blink his right eye and speak clearly again. But his smile still hadn't returned. So I made a secret vow: I would abstain__from smiles of any kind.

Nothing about fourth grade made this easy. Classmates were both old enough to laugh about pop culture and young enough to appreciate fart jokes. Kids called me Frowny the Dwarf. (I was three feet ten. ) Teachers accompanied me into hallways，asking what was wrong. Breaking__the__promise__I__had__made__myself__was__tempting，but I couldn't let Dad not smile alone.

When I asked my PE coach，"What's so great about smiling？" he made me do push-ups while the rest of the class played Wiffle ball. Then he called Dad.

I never learned what they discussed. But when I got off the school bus that afternoon，I saw Dad waiting for me，holding our gloves and ball. For the first time in months，we got in the family car and went to the park for a catch.

"It's been too long，" he said.

Roughly a half-dozen fathers and sons lined the field with gloved arms in the air. Dad couldn't smile，but he beamed，and so did I. Sundown came quickly. The field's white lights glowed，and everyone else left. But Dad and I threw everything from curve balls to folly floaters into the night. We had catching up to do.