Yes. “Well . . .” I bend my hand over my forehead to block the sun. “I’m not sure what moms are supposed to do. I figured it was best to stay out of the way. You know how I like to yell helpful advice to you that’s not actually helpful.” Please accept this and carry on.

He grins. “You do that.”

“I know.”

“But I see other moms. See on the bleachers? And there are a couple by the fence, I think. And at the last practice, there was a mom in the dugout trying to keep the kids organized. She said she was never coming back.”

I laugh. “I’m smarter than that. I already know how messy one twelve-year-old can be. I want no part of . . . how many of you are there? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

I shudder, making him laugh.

“Still. You should get out and get some fresh air.” He nibbles his bottom lip. “Weren’t you the one telling me how fresh air is good for you?”

My response is on the tip of my tongue—I got fresh air at work today. But as my mouth opens to release my excuse into the air, a flash of the truth bolts across his eyes.

He wants his parent there too. And I’m it.

“Okay,” I say around the heaviness in my chest. “Get over there and warm up. I’ll . . . walk laps around the field or something.” And avoid Cole.

His face lights up, rewarding me with a megawatt smile. “Great!”

I really ought to be thankful. He’s not embarrassed by my presence and wants me there. With him. Part of his world with his friends. I know how lucky I am to still have a kid who wants Mom around.

I slip on my jacket and pointedly avoid acknowledging anyone or anything on the field except Ethan. He waves at me from right field before tossing a ball with slightly better “mechanics” to a boy with bright-green socks. As my gaze sweeps back to the outfield, I spot Cole near the pitcher’s mound next to a man wearing a visor.

The air is slightly warmer than it was this afternoon when Kirk and I walked to the shop office to see Burt. Burt had approved an invoice that was $300 too high and wasn’t too keen on his mistake being out in the open.

He was even less happy that I was the one to catch it.

I carry some of that weight with me as I walk next to the outfield fence. I wish there were a way to let the frustrations of work go when I clock out. But I find myself worrying about Kirk and the business more than I’d like.

“I wish I didn’t care so much,” I mumble as I step over a dandelion.

My steps come quicker as I find what I call a “worry rhythm.” When I finally look up, I’m nearly to the visitors-side dugout. My head is still at work, replaying Burt’s excuses, and doesn’t have time to scream at me to not look at the pitcher’s mound.