“Those are good tears.”
Maisie nodded hard.
“The best ones.”
Cole gave her a signed pair of gloves as well, then arranged for us to stand near the tunnel when the team came out.
As players ran past, Maisie screamed until her voice cracked.
For those few minutes, her tears had nothing to do with the accident, the empty chair at home, or all the Sundays she would never have with her dad again.
She was simply eight years old and ridiculously happy.
After the game, we saw Parker near the concourse.
Denise was standing several feet away on her phone.
Parker approached us by himself.
“I’m sorry again,” he said.
Maisie held the football close.
“It’s okay.”
He shook his head.
“My mom shouldn’t have
done that.”
