A few people have started looking over.
Parents whispering.Kids glancing up from their gloves and bats.
I ignore them.Right now, the only thing that matters is finding my son.
I spot him near the edge of the parking lot, standing beside a big old maple tree that’s been here longer than the baseball field itself.
He’s staring out toward the mountains.
Still.
Quiet.
And that scares me more than if he’d been crying.I slow as I approach.Helplessness washes over me again.
Because there are moments in parenting where you realize there’s no magic fix.No words that can erase the hurt.
“Evan,” I keep my voice even, gentle.
But before I can take another step he turns around.Relief floods me, and I start toward him—but his eyes aren’t on me.
They’re looking past me.
Behind me.
Of course they are.
I don’t even need to turn to know J.T.followed us.
Because that’s who he is.
Solid.
Steady.
Always there.
Evan shifts his weight and looks up at him.
“Will you play?”
J.T.pauses behind me.
“Are you sure you want me to?”he asks carefully.
Evan nods immediately.
“Well, you are my stepdad.”
The word lands softly in the air.
My breath catches.
“And that counts,” Evan continues matter-of-factly.“Tommy Joyce’s stepdad is playing with him.”
My throat tightens so hard it almost hurts.
These two.
