I’ve been a single mom long enough to know that when a man gives your child something expensive, it usually comes with strings attached. So when my son’s baseball coach showed up with a $400 glove, I smiled, thanked him, and had no idea how bad it was until I felt something hidden inside the lining.
Mason turned twelve last Saturday.
Twelve. Which sounds like a small number until you’re the person who got him there on a cashier’s salary, two buses, and approximately four hours of sleep a night for the better part of a decade.
I’m not looking for a medal. I’m just saying, we’ve done this mostly alone, my son and I, and we’ve done it okay.
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