At Franklin Field, we searched for almost half an hour.
Eventually, a groundskeeper directed us toward the concession stand.
Months earlier, Mr. Vance had arranged for a sealed box to be kept there.
Inside was a letter.
Aaron read silently at first.
Then his hands began shaking.
“What?” Claire asked.
He sat down on the bleachers and handed her the letter.
Mr. Vance had written:
Aaron,
You asked me to come watch Ben play, and I kept telling you no.
You deserved better than excuses.
After your mother died, I couldn’t sit in those bleachers. I tried once and turned around before I reached the gate.
You probably thought I didn’t care.
I did.
I came to three games.
I parked beyond the outfield fence where you couldn’t see me.
I watched Ben hit a double in one. I watched him strike out twice in another and throw his helmet in the dugout. He gets that temper from you.
I should have walked closer.
I didn’t know how.
I’m sorry.
Aaron stared across the empty field.
“He was here?”
Claire nodded through tears.
Aaron laughed once, but the sound broke apart.
Then he cried.
“Three games.”
Noah sat beside him.
After a while, Aaron said, “All those years, I thought he chose everybody else over us.”
Noah looked toward the field.
“Maybe he didn’t know how to come back.”
Aaron looked down at the glove.
“That’s not the same as trying.”
“No.”
