His smile disappeared.
Inside were old photographs, a faded football patch, a yellowed program, and a folded note in a child’s handwriting.
On top was a photograph of a skinny boy in oversized shoulder pads, holding that same battered lunchbox.
His smile disappeared.
Caleb leaned forward.
“Mom. That’s Hayes.”
The man looked from the photograph to the elderly woman.
“You’re… his mother.”
“I am.”
“Oh no.” His face drained.
The man looked from the photograph to the elderly woman.
She took the lunchbox back.
“I packed his lunches in this when he was a boy,” she said. “He asked me to carry it onto the field during his retirement tribute today.”
Caleb stared at her.
“I can’t play anymore, but he’s still my favorite player.”
She smiled. “Is he?”
“He asked me to carry it onto the field.”
“He always goes back for his guy.”
Her eyes dropped to his wheelchair.
