Kerry leaves. I lock the door. Turn out the light and then stand there in the dark entry, feeling my heart still pound. I stand there until the adrenaline rush fades and my pulse is steady again. Then I climb the stairs in my swishy dancing dress, trying to be calm, trying to be grown up.

At least he didn’t forget me completely.

Late the next morning, I call the beach desk and ask for Kai, but he’s not working today.

“Is he on the schedule tomorrow?” I ask.

I get a vague, noncommittal reply.

“I don’t suppose you can get a message to him for me?” I persist.

The girl on the phone tells me she doesn’t have his home number. She’ll take a message, though, in case he checks in. I leave my name. “Jackie,” I tell her. “Let Kai know that Jackie returned his call.”

I wait a day and then another for Kai to phone, but he doesn’t. Then it’s Saturday morning and crazy busy.

Jessica’s soccer game is at nine, and although it rained all night, it’s finally stopped now. I’m the snack mom this week, so I cart boxes of doughnuts and juice boxes onto the muddy field.

Jessica’s team wins for a change (thank God), and as soon as the snacks are doled out, we hustle back into the car for the drive to Edmonds, where William’s football game begins at one. He changes into his pads and uniform in the car—not safe, I know, but he does do it with his seat belt on—and lunch is a drive-through hamburger.

I’m grateful that despite the gray clouds overhead, the rain has held off. At the stadium, Daniel and I nod politely at each other and Jessica goes to sit with her daddy while I take a seat in the bleachers as the players line up for kickoff.

William, my lovely, handsome, husky lineman, takes a few big hits early in the first half, gets yelled at by the coach after missing a key block, and looks up at me once where I sit in the stands.

I can’t really see his expression, but there’s no lightness in him. Despite his huge shoulder pads, he seems to sink, and I feel his worry and frustration. William is already so hard on himself that it doesn’t take many strong words from a coach to weigh his heart down.

I wish I could go scoop him up in a hug, but he’s ten now, and mothers aren’t allowed on the field. Instead I give him a big thumbs-up, and he stares at me another long moment before turning away.

Being a mom is the best and worst job in the world. You love them so much, it hurts. You love them so much, you can’t even begin to express it.