I lift the ball again.
I take the shot.
It swishes through the net—clean, perfect, like my hands know what to do even when my heart doesn’t.
Coach calls out, “That’s it!”
Jade grins, triumphant, like she just dragged me back from the edge.
And for a few seconds—just a few—I let the rhythm of practice hold me up.
Because Pops is home.
Because hospice will be here more often.
Because I have no idea how to be a daughter in this version of our life.
But I can be a point guard for two hours.
I can run drills and hit shots and pretend the future isn’t waiting at my front door.
And when practice ends, I’ll go back.
I’ll walk into my house, even though it feels like the walls are caving in more and more with every minute that passes.
I’ll see the wheelchair by the couch. I’ll hear Pops’s voice from the living room, since he can no longer make it to his bedroom.
And I’ll do the next thing I’m expected to do.
One foot in front of the other.
Even when it feels like the floor is being ripped out beneath me.
31
SLOANE
The season ends on a missed free throw.
Not mine, thank God, but the devastation still lands in my chest as if it were. The rim rejected the ball just like my life seems to reject good luck.
The buzzer sounds, and the scoreboard stays the same. They win by one. The visitors’ bench explodes, Coach claps his hands twice, and we form a line.
We shake hands. We say the words we’re supposed to say.
“Good game.”
“Good game.”
My mouth moves. My body moves, but my brain is stuck somewhere else.
All I can think about right now is the fact that I no longer have a buffer to keep me sane outside of my house. All of my classes are done in just two short weeks, even though they were all online anyways.
Home isn’t justhomeanymore.
Home is hospice supplies tucked off to the side, like we can hide what’s happening if we don’t look too hard.
Home is Pops sleeping more than he’s awake.
