My thirteen-year-old son, Evan, had been dreaming about the same bicycle for months.
Every time we drove past the sporting-goods store on Route 9, he would turn toward the window.
Matte black frame.
Orange lettering.
He knew the gears.
The model.
Even the price down to the last cent.
But there was one thing he never did.
He never asked me to buy it.
That was Evan.
So when he came into the kitchen one evening standing unusually straight, like he had practiced what he wanted to say, I already suspected something was coming.
“I got a job.”
I looked up.
“A job?”
“At Sal’s diner on Cherry Street. Saturdays. Washing dishes.”
He hesitated.
“I want to buy the bike myself.”
I smiled.
“You don’t have to do that. We can save for it together.”
He immediately shook his head.
“No. I want to earn it.”
Then he explained that Sal would pay him cash every Saturday.
He had already accepted.
That probably sounds like a normal thirteen-year-old wanting independence.
But to understand what happened later, you need to understand Evan.
His father, Marcus, had died three years earlier.
Suddenly.
One of those medical emergencies that gives a family no warning and no proper goodbye.
One day Marcus was standing in our driveway showing Evan how to change a tire.
Less than two weeks later, I was wearing black and accepting casseroles from neighbors while my ten-year-old son squeezed my hand so tightly it hurt.
