Page 25 of Flag On The Play
The drive feels longer than it is.
Every stretch of highway, every faded sign, every familiar exit brings with it a rush of memories I haven’t let myself think about in years. Not because they hurt, though they do, but because they belong to a part of me I locked away the moment I chose football over family.
When I pull up in front of the house, it’s like time hasn’t moved.
Same white shutters. Same cracked driveway. Same wind chimes Mom swore would bring good energy, even though they drove Dad insane. He never took them down.
I park and just sit there for a minute, hands gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing holding me together.
Then I get out.
The front door opens before I reach it. My mom stands in the doorway, small and tired, but still strong. Her hair’s gone gray at the roots, and the laugh lines around her mouth are deeper, but she’s still the woman who used to kiss my forehead before every game in high school, no matter how much I rolled my eyes.
“Hi, Mom.”
She doesn’t speak. Just opens her arms and pulls me in like I’m still her little boy coming home after practice.
And I let her.
I let the grief come. Let the weight of eight years fall between us as we hold each other on the front porch like we’re the only two people in the world.
“I missed you,” she whispers, her voice trembling.
“I missed you too,” I say, and this time, I mean it with everything I have.
Inside, the house smells like lemon polish and old books. The furniture hasn’t changed. The photos still line the hallway. Me in my youth football jersey, my parents at some banquet, a framed college acceptance letter my dad was proud of before I tore that dream away.
There’s even a picture of me in my rookie year, buried beneath a stack of mail.
Mom makes tea like it’s a routine. I sit at the kitchen table, elbows on the scratched wood, staring out the window at the backyard I used to throw passes in with my dad.
He was a hard man. Tough love, little praise. But he was present. Always.
He watched every game, even when we were fighting. Even when we hadn’t spoken in months. I know he watched.
“Was he in pain?” I ask as my mom sets a mug in front of me.
She nods, taking the seat across from me. “Not at first. But the last few weeks were rough.”
I stare down into the tea I’m not going to drink.
“I should’ve come sooner.”
“We should’ve called you sooner. He wanted to, you know. I think he didn’t know how.”
We sit in silence for a while, as I watch her sipping tea and not saying all the things we probably should’ve said years ago.
Then I finally ask the question that’s been buzzing in the back of my mind since I got that text.
“Did anyone reach out to you? About him?”
“You mean Nova?”
I look up sharply. “It was her.”
Mom gives me a sad little smile. “She came by when your dad was first diagnosed. Said she’d heard from someone at the clinic. They were our neighbors once, remember? Her mom used to bring over those ridiculous cupcakes.”
“Yeah,” I say, the memory tugging something loose in my chest. “With the neon frosting.”
