His dad flinched, glanced at the caller ID, and sighed. “Just a second, kiddo.” He stepped onto the porch to answer. Jamie waited. And waited. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. The ball hung loosely in his hand. Eventually, he turned around and went inside. He never mentioned it. But his dad noticed.
And that’s when the guilt began to bloom — the kind that settled deep and didn’t let go. He knew he couldn’t replace Jamie’s mom. He knew working more hours didn’t make up for being around less. But what else could he do? They needed groceries. Rent. Warm clothes. The truth was: his dad was exhausted.
Grief had stolen his partner, and responsibility had stolen his rest. But Jamie was all he had now. And that had to mean something. Then, something shifted. It happened on a Tuesday. Jamie was staring out of the window in class, head propped on his hand, eyes glazed over. His teacher was going over fractions, but he wasn’t listening.
He didn’t care how many halves made a whole. His whole had already been broken. That’s when he saw them. Across the street, a kid was walking with his mother. They were laughing about something — Jamie couldn’t hear what — but he didn’t care about them. What caught his eye was the little creature bouncing along beside them. A puppy.