Epilogue Weston Eight years later
I blow my whistle and form a T with my hands. “Halftime! Great work, kids, you’re all really improving. Let’s take a break and have a snack.”
Most of the six-year-olds scurry to the bleachers, eager for treats and attention from their parents. A few get distracted on their way and have to be called over again.
But our little Madison, the only girl on the local pee-wee flag football team, is still doggedly practicing her throw as if she didn’t hear a thing. Even the sudden lack of partners doesn’t dissuade her; she just heaves the ball a few feet, trots after it, bends to pick it up, and repeats.
God, it’s adorable.
I walk across the field to that lone blue-clad figure and squat next to her. My knees twinge in protest.
Now that I’m well into my mid-th
