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Her hair was falling out of its braids, she had grass stains on her back from a catch she dove to make, and her cheeks were red with exertion. I could stare at her like this forever and be happy.
Because my kid was absolutely in her happy place. Few things made a mom’s heart feel more overwhelmed with emotion than that. Which was really strange, if you think about it.
I wasn’t an athlete in school. I would’ve done more harm than good on any team I tried to join. My idea of extracurriculars was like, the yearbook staff. Reading every book I could get my hands on over the summer. A few mild to moderate hikes where I didn’t risk falling to my death over a mountainside or something.
In truth, until I had Sage, I’d never understood the whole youth sports culture. Didn’t understand how families could sacrifice all their extra money and time for something designed for ten-year-olds. And now, I’d do just about anything to make sure she had this in her life.
It was her thing. And on that cold metal bleacher, with frozen fingers and desperately wishing I’d worn a hat, I wanted to burst into tears when Sage listened intently to the play call, clapped her hands, and lined up with her teammates, took the snap as quarterback and delivered an absolute bomb down the field where the receiver—a skinny redhead with impossibly fast legs—ran it in uncontested for a touchdown.
I was on my feet in the next breath. “Yeah, Sage! That’s it, baby!” I screamed. “Great throw.”
She looked over at me—the only parent currently treating this like it was a championship game—and rolled her eyes so mightily, I worried a bit about the state of her retinas. I held up my hands and mouthed, “Sorry.”
Sage grinned, then ran off to celebrate with her team.
My eyes were a little shiny, the field looking a little blurry when I sat back down.
“She looks good.”
The sound of my dad’s low voice had me whirling.
“Dad, I didn’t expect to see you,” I said. I slid over, and he gestured that he was fine.
“Rather stand, but thanks.” He had his hands tucked into the pockets of the same brown work jacket he’d had for probably thirty years. Because of his back, he’d always hated sitting on bleachers. “Your mom told me they let her on the boys team, huh?”
I nodded. “There were a couple of girls who wanted to play, and they might see if there’s enough interest here and in Redmond to do a girls’ team in the spring.”
He took that in quietly, as was his way. While he watched the team line up again, this time with Sage in a receiver position, I studied him. His face was lined, and he looked older than his sixty-seven years. Likely because he’d worked his ass off in a mill until just the year before, wanting to go one year past the requisite sixty-five.
From what my mom had told me in stilted phone calls over the years, my dad had never quite known what he’d do with himself in retirement, but apparently, he’d done fine. He was always tinkering with something around the house or in the garage, keeping their small square yard manicured to precision.
If I was honest, I didn’t really know how to talk to my dad. I’d never known how. He was a stoic man, never prone to talking about what he was feeling or what was going on in his life—or anyone’s life, to be honest. But he was still somehow gentler in that silence than my mom was in her easily voiced judgment.
Over the years, I’d seen him quiet her with a simple look if she got too worked up about something. Or he’d simply sit back at the dinner table and say, “Well now, I think we’re ready for some quiet after supper, don’t you?”
He must have felt me staring because he took a slow, deep breath. “I saw the kids on the field when I was driving back home,” he said. “Then I saw your car. Thought I’d see how she’s doing.”
“She’s doing great,” I said. “Did you see the touchdown?”
He made a low noise of assent. “Good arm. She didn’t get that from you.”
A shocked laugh burst from my lips, and I gave him a quick glance to make sure I hadn’t imagined that. Was he … teasing me?
“No,” I mused. “She certainly didn’t.”
Dad sighed, then adjusted the beat-up red hat on his head. “Your mother said she asked you about Sunday dinner to celebrate your birthday?”
“I don’t know if asked is the right way to phrase that,” I admitted. “But yes, she did send me a text. Honestly, I got distracted and forgot to answer. You can tell her we’re coming.”
It was the most critical I’d ever been of her in front of my dad, and my eyes lowered to the ground, waiting for the quiet chastisement. But it never came.
This time, he was the one looking at me with a thoughtful expression on his face.
“You two have never gotten along, have ya?”
I blew out a slow breath and tried to weigh the pros and cons of brutal honesty when I was already feeling a touch emotional. It wasn’t just my mom, but I think he knew that too. He’d raised me and Rachel, so our fights were probably still seared into his memory. But not getting along with Mom set the tone for everything else.
“Not really,” I agreed.
