Page 103 of The Game Plan
I nod, taking the bag over to my wife. Mom is a gift giver. She loves finding the perfect gift for someone and making them feel special. I’m so glad they’ve welcomed Savannah and now Lennon into our family with open arms. Nothing about our relationship—or marriage—is conventional, but it’s us.
Savannah pulls the tissue out of the bag before reaching in to grab the hangers of baby outfits. There’s a variety of styles in different sizes to keep our daughter’s closet expanding. Savannah sucks in a deep breath as she pulls out a beige waffle-knit robe, a skincare set with different oils and lotions, a candle, and a journal—all for her.
“Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, you didn’t have to do all of this,” Sav says, voice thick with emotion.
“Of course we did, sweetie,” Mom replies, looking at my wife. “You deserve to be pampered, too, Savannah. You’ve given our family the greatest gift by allowing us to be a part of your daughter’s life. It’s the least we could do.”
Savannah nods, eyes filling with tears, giving them a tight-lipped smile.
“And please, call us Derek and Emily,” Dad offers her a smile.
They visit for nearly an hour before my wife’s eyes grow heavy. Mom transfers a sleeping Lennon to the hospital bassinet, and then she and my dad hug us goodbye. I follow them to the door, but Dad stops at the threshold, turning back to me. He glances over my shoulder to where Sav’s head has drooped to the side before he grips my shoulder. I don’t expect the weight or the tug as he pulls me into his arms.
We’re a loving family. We say, “I love you.” Mom’s always the first to give hugs, while Dad hugs my sister and offers me a handshake or a nod. I haven’t been hugged by him in what feels like forever, but the symbolism of this hug isn’t lost on me.
“I promise you this—they’re both ours now, too,” he whispers near my ear. “I’ll protect them, love them, and spoil your daughter rotten.”
I give a half-laugh that cracks into a choked sob. He doesn’t flinch at the display of my emotions, but hugs me tighter.
I never realized how much I needed to hear those words from him.
I’m snapped back to the present, the four of us sitting around the table as Lennon lounges in her bouncer.
“You still planning on hosting the big Thanksgiving dinner?” I ask Mom, already knowing the answer.
“Of course,” she says, her body lighting up. “I wouldn’t miss it.”
She launches into details about opening her home to the football staff who can’t go home for the holidays. She knows she needs to cater more, but she loves cooking for large groups. Dad grumbles about how many turkeys he has to help prepare.
“Will you two be there?” She glances between Sav and me. “Savannah, do you do anything special with your parents?”
Sav’s eyes widen slightly before going back to normal. It was such a quick movement; I doubt my parents saw it, but I didn’tmiss it. She offers my mom a polite smile. “We’ll be there.” Her words are soft, and she doesn’t elaborate on her parents' situation. Eyes distant and unfocused, she glances down at her plate.
My wife is here, but not really.
I notice the half-eaten chicken and mashed potatoes on her plate. The way her shoulders stay tense. Something knots inside me.
Idle chatter fills the table as we all finish our dinner. Wiping my face, I stand from my seat, gathering my dishes. “Let me clean up. Mom, why don’t you and Savvy take Lennon for a walk? The neighborhood always looks nice this time of night.”
Mom’s face brightens as I try to sell the idea to both of them. “Sounds wonderful.”
I follow the women inside with a stack of dirty dishes. Sav pulls out her baby carrier from the diaper bag and straps Lennon to her chest. Dad and I kiss our women goodbye as they step outside for their walk. I turn to the pile of dishes, but my mind stays on Savvy.
Something’s off, and I’m not letting her slip through the cracks alone.
“Need a hand?” Dad asks, already grabbing a dish towel from the drawer.
“Sure.” I hand him a pot.
We fall into a rhythm—scrape, wash, rinse, and dry. Neither of us says much as we work to clean the kitchen. A classic rock song plays faintly in the background. My parents always have a classic rock or country music station playing in their kitchen.
Once we finish, I wipe my hands dry on a towel as Dad nudges his head toward the couch. I follow him into the living room, taking a seat opposite him. The side that gives me the perfect view to watch for our women.
He lets the quiet settle around us before clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t say it at the hospital,” he starts. “Shit. I was trying to hold it together because seeing you with a baby in your arms… Fuck, Grant. I’m so proud of you, Son.”
My head whips in his direction as I swallow down an emotional lump, but I don’t say anything. I can’t find any words.
“You were made for this.” Dad continues. “For fatherhood and leadership.”
