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Dad shook his head. “That car’s a money pit.”
“It is,” I acknowledged before stepping outside where Cammie was throwing her ball against the pitch back.
That sports car represented my first big promotion. It was evidence I’d made it. Of course, the best day was holding Cameron in my arms in the hospital. When I held her tiny weight in my arms, I knew everything had changed. She was it for me. I’d do anything to keep her safe and protected.
I just thought she’d have both of her parents. I couldn’t have anticipated Cammie losing her mother at seven.
Shaking the melancholy thoughts from my head, I asked Cammie, “You ready to play?”
Cammie scowled and put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been waiting forever.”
Thirty seconds was too long of a delay for this kid. Amused, I said, “I told you I had to change.”
She gestured toward home plate, which was in front of the patio. “Stand by home plate. I want to pitch to you.”
Cammie loved baseball, but there was nowhere to play in or near our apartment. The first thing I did when I decided to move back to Annapolis was order a pitch back net and bases to be delivered to my parents’ house.
I wanted her to feel at home. Like she was only gaining something by moving there, not losing anything. She’d be starting at a new school, and I hoped she’d adjust and make new friends quickly.
Cammie stood at the make-shift pitcher’s mound, her hand curled around a baseball behind her back, her glove against her chest. She must be mimicking the professional baseball players she watched on TV. Abruptly, she straightened and rolled her eyes. “You’re supposed to give me the hand single.”
I stood and stretched. “What hand signal?”
“You know, one means fastball, two means curveball, three is a sinker, four’s a change-up, and five is a knuckleball.” Her tone was exasperated.
“How did you learn all of this?” I sank into my catcher’s stance, singling one finger for a fastball.
Without answering, she moved into position, took an exaggerated deep breath, then lowered her shoulders, wound up, and threw the baseball.
I straightened to catch it. “A little high.”
We resumed our positions, and I signaled two for curveball. “Why aren’t we practicing with a softball?”
I’d researched the proper size for her age. The yellow and purple balls were in a bag somewhere in the garage. Maybe she couldn’t find them.
She shot me a disgusted look. “Why do I have to play softball?”
Her expression made me think I’d stepped into quicksand with my seemingly innocent question. I wasn’t sure where I went wrong. “Girls play softball, and boys play baseball.”
Her face pinched. “But why?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.” I didn’t know the history behind it, but she wouldn’t be satisfied until she had answers.
“And why is it called a softball when it’s harder than a baseball?”
“It is?” That was something else I didn’t know.
She sighed. “Yes, Daddy. It is.”
“Are you going to throw?” My knees were starting to ache from the crouched position, but I’d never tell her that.
“Fine.” She got back into position, and I could only hope she’d forgotten her line of questioning.
I used two fingers to remind her it was a curveball, and she wound up to throw a sidearm. The ball went wide and bounced off the siding of the house with a thud.
“Hey! Watch it out there,” Dad roared.
Cammie’s eyes widened. “Whoops.”
