a grieving child.
Her son, Parker, looked horrified.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“You wanted a game ball.”
“Not like that.”
Denise ignored him and held the football closer to his chest.
I stood.
“Give it back.”
She looked at me as though I was being unreasonable.
“The player threw it into the stands. That means anybody can catch it.”
“He pointed directly at my daughter.”
“Your daughter happened to be standing there.”
A man behind us leaned forward.
“We all saw him point at her.”
Denise turned.
“This isn’t your business.”
Then she looked at Maisie and seemed irritated that she was crying.
“Honestly, she’s eight. She’ll get over it.”
Maisie wiped her cheek.
“It was for me.”
Denise gave a small laugh.
“My son has played football for three years. He actually understands what that ball means.”
That sentence hit me almost as hard as seeing Maisie’s
← Previous Page
Next Page →
