Lucas considered that answer before holding out his hands.
Derek passed him the ball.
Lucas took another shot.
This time, it went in.
He celebrated with both arms raised, and Derek laughed with him.
From the bench, I felt a small sense of relief. It wasn’t forgiveness, and it wasn’t a promise that everything would return to normal.
It was simply a moment in which my son had been heard.
That evening, I found his arena sign leaning against his bedroom wall.
The words he had written about his father faced inward. The bright blue and gold number of his favorite player faced the room.
I stood there for a moment, remembering the boy who had once thrown his basketball schedule away because he was afraid of being mocked.
Then Lucas called from downstairs.
“Mom! Want to shoot hoops tomorrow?”
I picked up my sneakers.
“Only if you promise not to laugh at my terrible aim.”
