I didn’t force her.
Grief had already taken enough choices away from her.
About seven months after Gavin died, she appeared beside me while I was making dinner and quietly asked when his team was playing.
I almost dropped the spoon in my hand.
That Sunday, she wore Gavin’s jersey even though it hung almost to her knees.
She didn’t cheer much, but she watched until the end.
The next Sunday, she corrected me when I called a linebacker a quarterback.
That was when I knew my little girl was slowly finding her way back.
Saving for the tickets took nearly four months.
Money wasn’t desperate, but life had become tighter with one income, and stadium tickets were the kind of purchase I normally would have talked myself out of.
This time, I wanted her to have the day Gavin had promised her.
