When I finally asked, very quietly, because I had already learned that asking for anything in baseball season required careful timing, my mother sighed without turning around.
“We’ll do something later, sweetie.”
My father reached into the center console, pulled out a slightly melted Snickers bar, and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed in my lap with a soft thud.
“Happy birthday, champ.”
I remember staring at it for a second. The wrapper had been crushed along one side. The chocolate had gone pale from heat. In the front seat, neither of them turned around. Beyond the windshield, Gavin laughed with his teammates as if the whole world had arranged itself correctly around him once again.
I peeled the wrapper back and ate my birthday in three bites.
