Page 141 of Proposal Play
I’ll miss that too—the way he sees me. But I shove these wistful feelings inside as, hand in hand, we head for the park.
“Go deep!” I shout to a group of grade-schoolers who had the audacity to challenge me to a round of frisbee on Crissy Field on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.
A sixth grader named Prahna, who plays soccer, sprints across the field, arms outstretched. “I’ve got it!” she yells, reaching for the orange disc I send soaring through the air. She leaps and snatches it mid-flight.
“You’re better than a Border Collie,” I call out.
“Goals,” she responds with a grin.
We toss the frisbee back and forth a little longerbefore she slows down, breathless. “I’m hungry. Do they have any gluten-free sandwiches? I can’t eat wheat.”
“Dude, I don’t eat meat,” I say, smacking palms with her. “Different food options for the win.”
We head toward the sandwich boxes in recycled cardboard, joining her parents and the other kids and families. Some kids are here with their families, and some aren’t—that’s the whole point of this charity. It’s for underprivileged kids, and not all of them have parents who can always be there for them.
I glance around at the kids digging into sandwiches, a warm feeling settling in. It’s moments like this that remind me why this charity matters—why Asher and my brother are launching it. For sports, but also for support. But then a small tug on my sleeve pulls me from my thoughts.
Another girl, about ten, stands by my side. “Do you know where the restrooms are?”
“Sure, I’ll show you, Lia,” I say, reading her name tag, then walking her toward the facilities. She’s unusually quiet on the way, her eyes downcast.
On the way back, she suddenly blurts out, “I miss my dad. He died last year.”
My breath catches. I crouch down beside her, unsure of what to say at first, but the look in her eyes tells me she just needs someone to understand. “I’m so sorry,” I say softly. “I lost someone important too—my mom and my dad. And you know what? Sometimes I still miss them.”
“You do?” she asks, her voice small.
“Ten years later, I really do.”
“Does it ever stop hurting?”
I pause, thinking about how to answer her. “Yes. But sometimes that hurt comes back out of the blue. Whenyou aren’t expecting it. And it wallops you. But you know what?”
“What?” she asks, eager for an answer.
“The love stays. That part never goes away.”
Lia looks at me, blinking back tears, but straightens her shoulders like she’s trying to be strong. “I feel it sometimes—the love.”
I nod, smiling softly, my throat tightening as I feel that swelling in my heart—that love I believe my mom left for me. When she passed on to the next life, I believe she gave me all that was left in her heart. “Good. Hold onto that. It’s what makes us who we are. It’s a gift, really, to have that much love inside you.”
She nods. “Thanks.”
Maybe that’s why I feel like I’m too much sometimes—because I have all this love in me with nowhere to go. But maybe it’s not such a bad thing if I can help others unexpectedly, especially in moments like this. I squeeze her hand gently. “And thanks for sharing. It’s good to talk things through.”
She gives me a tiny nod. “I try to stay tough,” she whispers.
“You are tough,” I tell her. “But you don’t always have to be. If you ever want to talk to someone, that’s okay too.”
“Maybe,” she says thoughtfully. “Sometimes I just like to play soccer though.”
“I get that,” I say with a smile. “We all work things out differently. I do it through painting.”
We walk back, the moment settling into my bones. I’ve been where she is—trying to be tough, trying to hold onto something that feels like it’s slipping away. Sometimes, maybe all the time, holding too hard. But maybe holding too hard isn’t a bad thing if you can help others with it.
When we return to the picnic tables, Lia heads off to talk to a counselor, and Asher finds me and introduces me to a few families. We chat with some board members from the dinner—Marcus, the sports psychologist is here, as well as Terrence, the retired football coach, and Lydia, one of the big donors.
“Are you still folding swan napkins?” Marcus asks.