For years, I thought keeping my son safe meant controlling every single thing that came near him. The letters. His father. His schedule. Even the game he played, and how hard I cheered for it. I thought if I held on tightly enough to every piece of his life, nothing could ever hurt him again.
But you can’t love somebody into a shoebox. You can’t keep them safe by deciding, all alone, what they’re strong enough to know. Sam was always stronger than I let him be. So, it turned out, was his father. So was I.
At six o’clock, Sam came out the main entrance with his hair soaked and his bag over his shoulder and his water bottle in his hand, half empty.
He got in, dropped into the seat, and grinned at me.
“Dad says you brought this in.”
“I did.”
“He made a whole thing of it. Walked right into the locker room in front of everybody. Coach yelled at him.”
