When the water heater failed three days before Christmas, she helped me mop the floor, kissed my cheek, and laughed because we’d always wanted hardwood instead of stained carpet.
She carried hope easily.
I carried guilt.
Our son, Eli, had just turned two, and every evening he dragged me toward the narrow strip of grass behind our rental with his plastic soccer ball tucked under one arm. The poor kid could take three running steps before he reached the fence.
I carried guilt.
One night, he pointed toward the neighbors’ big backyard, where two boys were chasing each other through a sprinkler.
« Daddy, I want one. »
I knew exactly what he meant.
« One day, » I told him, « you’ll have a yard so big I’ll need binoculars to find you. »
He laughed like I’d already bought it.
