The Eighth Inning of Grief

Maggie sat on the deck of the empty house, the **pool** below her reflecting a sky the color of a fresh bruise. The water had gone green with neglect—much like everything else since David died. She ran her fingers through her tangled **hair**, realizing she hadn't washed it in four days. The grief counselor said this was normal. What she didn't say was that normal felt like drowning in slow motion.

Their son Lucas's **baseball** glove still sat on the railing where he'd left it last season. He was twelve now, and David had promised to teach him to throw a proper curveball. That promise hung between them like smoke. Maggie tried to throw with Lucas last weekend, but her shoulder gave out, and they both pretended not to cry as she handed the ball back.

The market crash had taken everything else—the house, the investments, their future. David had called himself a **bull**, right up until the end. He'd bet it all on that IPO, convinced he was seeing something nobody else could see. The joke was that he was right—just about the wrong things. Now Maggie was thirty-nine, unemployed, and raising a son who looked more like his father every day.

"Mom?" Lucas stood in the sliding glass doorway, silhouette against the darkening kitchen. "Coach asked if I'm coming to practice tomorrow."

The bottom of the eighth inning, and she was down to her last strike. Some nights she wanted to just walk away, let the universe win. But then she'd remember David's voice, telling her that games weren't won in the good innings—they were won in the bad ones, when you kept swinging anyway.

"We'll be there," she said. "I promise."