arents felt I wasn’t “their level.” The truth cut deep. Weeks later, Bethany called at dawn — Jake was sick, high fever, and her parents “didn’t want to risk it.” He was asking for me. I went without hesitation.
Sitting by his bed with a cool cloth, he whispered, “I wanted you at my game. Mommy said you had important things to do.” My heart broke and healed all at once. Before I left that day, Jake handed me a baseball signed by his whole team.
“I wanted you to have mine,” he said. That ball now sits by my late husband’s photo — a reminder that being present matters more than any “level” or perfect image. Next time they try to sideline me, I’ll remember: I’m Jake’s safe place, his number-one fan, and nothing will keep me off his team again.
