Josh boxes like an eight-year-old boy who’s mad at the world. That is to be expected. But as we approach the end of the hour, I can see the beginnings of something resembling skill in the force of those tired punches. Control.
He looks drained when we get back into the SUV dripping with sweat, but there’s a newfound confidence in his step. He doesn’t fidget and he doesn’t avoid my gaze.
“I’d say we’ve earned some ice cream, wouldn’t you?”
Josh hesitates. “Can we take some back for Aunt Emma and the girls?”
“Of course.”
Only then does he nod his approval.
On our drive to the creamery, I try to figure out this strange feeling spreading over my chest. I keep going back to the picture Emma sent me of her and the kids eating ice cream. The smile on her face, the happiness in her eyes—they
