Dad never raised his head to acknowledge the crowd.
He concentrated
on each step, just as he’d once carefully crossed the floor of his dairy barn.
I sat there with both hands pressed against my mouth.
Then Travis rose from his seat beside me.
But he wasn’t clapping.
His eyes were fixed on the steps leading down from the bleachers.
His jaw shifted slightly, the way it always did when he was struggling to say something important.
In nine years together, I’d witnessed that expression only twice.
He gripped the railing with one hand.
And then, without speaking, he began walking.
Travis descended the bleacher steps slowly, his eyes never leaving Kaylee and my father.
For one foolish moment, I thought he had finally understood.
Perhaps he would apologize.
Perhaps he would ask to join them.
Instead, he stopped beside the athletic director and whispered something.
The director’s expression changed.
