I couldn’t look at them anymore.
Ray kept coming by. Every Sunday, for a while. He’d bring a casserole his wife made or a pizza, and he’d ask if Caleb wanted to go throw the ball around. The other guys called too. Invitations to barbecues. The department softball game. The holiday party. Somebody offered to take Caleb to a baseball game.
I said no to everything.
“He’s not ready.”
“We’ve got plans that day.”
“Maybe next time.”
And then one Sunday, about four months after the funeral, Ray showed up at the door with a baseball glove under his arm. A new one. Caleb’s size.
“Thought he might be getting too big for the old one,” he said.
I stood in the doorway and didn’t let him in.
“Ray,” I said. “I need you to stop coming.”
He blinked. “Jen…”
“I can’t do it anymore. Every time I see you in that uniform, I…” My voice broke. “I just can’t. I need it to be over. Please. I need you to let us move on.”
