I sniffle. “So, this is a lot to take in,” I say, stumbling over the words. “But I got a call today.”

“From who?” Dad asks, his voice calm and steady.

I look at him. “From my doctor. One of them. Anyway . . . it turns out that I have multiple sclerosis.”

Mom gasps. Her body stiffens, every muscle tightening as she searches my eyes for some hint that I’m kidding. Dad, on the other hand, sits resolute.

“Are they sure?” he asks.

I nod.

“That’s why you retired.” Dad’s statement is that—a fact. It’s not a question or a proposal but rather an understanding of a situation that’s not made sense to him.

“I couldn’t hit anymore. The ball was blurry. I couldn’t read the nuances.” I bow my head. “Everyone blamed the strikeouts at the end of the season due to the shoulder stuff, and that probably didn’t help. But I was having issues before that.”

Dad dips his chin too.

Tears slip down Mom’s cheek as she squeezes my hand. When I look up, she’s staring at the wall.

“What does this mean?” she asks. “Will you be okay?”

I shrug. “Okay” is such a relative term. This morning, I thought I’d be okay because I’d have Palmer and Ethan, and we’d have the excitement of facing a new day together. Now? I’m only okay because I’m not six feet under.

I’m alone, untethered from everything that’s ever made sense to me. But I don’t want to go there with my mom yet. I can’t even sort that in my own head at the moment.

“Yeah. I think so. I mean, I’m fit and healthy otherwise. And there are lots of treatments and things now that there didn’t used to be. The doctor said I just need to focus on staying strong, and we’ll deal with the symptoms as they arise.”

She turns to me slowly, her eyes glassy with the tears not yet fallen. “I’m scared for you.”

I wrap her in my arms and hold her against me. She shakes as she cries. I hold myself together until my father wraps us both up in a giant hug. Then I fall apart.

I squeeze my mom, and my dad squeezes me. We sit on the bed and hold each other for what feels like an eternity. I want to get up, to move, to tell them it’ll be okay—even if it might be a lie. But I sit and let them hug their child who’s just told them he’s sick. Because they need it. And maybe because I need it too.

It’s something I haven’t had time to really think about or prepare for—telling my parents about my new reality. I haven’t stopped to think how much this would hurt them.