On the tape, in Walter’s handwriting, were the words:
ADAM’S FIRST GOAL — FEBRUARY 17, 2002.
Adam stared at it.
“He kept this?”
“Of course he did.”
He picked up the photograph.
There was nine-year-old Adam, smiling in an oversized hockey helmet.
Behind him stood Walter, wearing his coaching jacket.
Adam looked down.
“I quit hockey when I was eleven,” he whispered. “I told Dad I hated the sport. I thought he was disappointed in me.”
My heart tightened.
“Adam, your father kept that puck at the front of his favorite binder for years.”
He looked at me.
“He did?”
“Yes. Whenever he looked through his collection, he’d stop at that photograph.”
I touched his shoulder.
“He was proud of you, sweetheart. He just wasn’t always good at saying it.”
Adam stared at the puck for a long moment.
Then his eyes filled with tears.
Lily climbed onto the couch beside him.
