A small smile tugged at my mouth, despite everything.
"They were great parents. Really great. The kind who showed up to every game, every school event, even when they were exhausted. My dad bought me my first baseball and mitt the day I was born. Kept it in the crib with me like it was a stuffed animal. He always wanted me to be a New York Yankee one day."
I could still see him in the stands, wearing his Yankees cap, cheering louder than anyone else.
"There are so many pictures of me in Yankee stripes," I said. "Halloween costumes, Little League uniforms, even my winter coat had the logo stitched on the back. He was obsessed. In the best way."
Mila's expression softened, and I felt my chest ease.
"They loved me," I said, and the weight of that truth settled like an anchor. "Gave me tough love when I needed it, too. When I was in third grade, I started hanging out with the wrong kids—nothing serious, just stupid stuff. Skipping homework. Talking back to teachers. Shoplifting candy from the corner store."
I shook my head at the memory.
"My parents shut that down fast. Grounded me for a month. Made me apologize to the store owner and work off what I'd stolen by sweeping his floors after school."
I could still remember the humiliation. The way my dad had stood there with his arms crossed while I mumbled my apology.
"From then on, they took turns sitting with me while I did homework," I continued. "Driving me to practice. Making sure I stayed on track. My mom would help me with English and history. My dad handled the math and science. They tag-teamed my childhood like it was a mission."
I paused, the memory sharp and bittersweet.
"They were equally loving, equally present. Both of them. I can honestly say that."
My voice dropped.
"I think that's what saved my soul later," I said quietly. "The love of family. Knowing what it felt like to be cared for without conditions. To have people who saw the best in you even when you couldn't see it yourself."
Mila's hand tightened on my chest, and I knew she understood.
"St. Paul’s School for Boys was the pinnacle of athletic power on the East Coast," I continued, forcing myself forward. "Only the best boys went there. Stud athletes. Born leaders. They'd strut down the street in their collared shirts with the school crest, and people treated them like celebrities. Girls noticed them. Coaches scouted them. They weresomebody."
I huffed a bitter laugh.
"To show you how tight money was for us, it took my parents six months to scrape together the application fee. A hundred and fifty bucks. Doesn't sound like much, but for us? It was everything."
I remembered my mom counting bills at the kitchen table. My dad picking up extra shifts.
"But they did it," I said. "And when I got in—twelve years old, going into seventh grade where the St. Paul's pipeline began—I knew I was going to change our family's future. I was going to be the one who made it."
The memory surfaced sharp and clear: my parents crying in the kitchen when the acceptance letter came. My mom clutching the paper like it was made of gold. My dad picking me up and spinning me around even though I was almost as tall as him by then.
"They were so excited," I said, my voice thickening. "But it was a boarding school. Two hours outside the city. So, saying goodbye was hard. Really hard."
I could still feel my mom's arms around me, the way she'd cried into my shoulder.
"The first three nights, I cried myself to sleep," I admitted. "Homesick. Scared. Missing the sound of my dad snoring through the walls and my mom's burnt toast in the morning."
Mila made a soft sound, sympathetic but not pitying.
"Turns out I wasn't the only one," I added. "Half the kids in my dorm were doing the same thing. We just didn't talk about it."
I paused, gathering myself.
"But those first few weeks at St. Paul's? They were actually fun. Exciting, even. They let us play games, show off our skills. There were obstacle courses and scrimmages and competitions. It felt like summer camp for athletes."
I smiled, despite myself.
"There was this kid, Walker. Even at twelve, he could throw a football as far as an NFL quarterback. Sixty, seventy yards, no problem. He was a freak in the best way. Built like a grown man. Took him years to throw a tight spiral, though."
