I had spent the entire morning believing we were going to stop somewhere after Gavin’s game. My mother had said there would be cake later. She had even smiled when she said it, and at nine years old, I still trusted smiles. I still thought parents meant what they said.
By the time the last inning dragged into evening, by the time Gavin’s team had celebrated and the coaches had held an impromptu strategy meeting in the parking lot and my father had joined three other men in discussing batting mechanics as if the fate of Western civilization depended on a twelve-year-old’s follow-through, the idea of cake had become abstract. A thing from another reality. Something that belonged to other children whose birthdays arrived and remained attached to them all day.
When I finally asked, very quietly, because I had already learned that asking for anything in baseball season required careful timing, my mother sighed without turning around.
“We’ll do something later, sweetie.”
My father reached into the center console, pulled out a slightly melted Snickers bar, and tossed it over his shoulder. It landed in my lap with a soft thud.
“Happy birthday, champ.”
I remember staring at it for a second. The wrapper had been crushed along one side. The chocolate had gone pale from heat. In the front seat, neither of them turned around. Beyond the windshield, Gavin laughed with his teammates as if the whole world had arranged itself correctly around him once again.
I peeled the wrapper back and ate my birthday in three bites.
