I’m not angry at you. I just spent years believing he didn’t care.”
Eventually, Noah handed him the glove.
“Then maybe you should come.”
At Franklin Field, a groundskeeper directed us toward a sealed box Mr. Vance had arranged to leave there.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read it.
His father admitted that he should have come to Ben’s games.
But after Margaret died, sitting in those bleachers had become unbearable because they reminded him of everything they had once done together.
Still, he had secretly attended three games.
He parked beyond the outfield fence where nobody could see him.
He remembered Ben hitting a double.
He remembered Ben striking out and angrily throwing his helmet.
And he remembered regretting that he never walked closer.
“I didn’t know how,” Mr. Vance had written.
“I’m sorry.”
Aaron sat staring across the empty baseball field.
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