What Caleb hadn’t figured out yet was how to stop apologizing for everything his new life required from other people.
One night during rehab, I asked him the question I hated myself for asking.
“Do you ever wish you hadn’t gone after him?”
He stared at me.
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I just wondered if…”
“If I hadn’t pushed him, he’d be the one in this chair. Or he’d be dead.”
Then he turned back toward the television.
That was Caleb.
Football was harder.
His team still practiced near our house, close enough that he could sometimes hear whistles from the field.
He stopped asking to go watch.
Instead, every Sunday, we watched professional football together.
His Hayes jersey stayed hanging beside the bed.
Then Hayes announced his retirement at the end of the season.
Caleb was a few months into rehab.
“When I’m strong enough, can we see them for real?” He asked.
