The little boy reached out and found his mother’s sleeve.
“Mom?” he whispered.
Her expression softened instantly.
She turned back to him and pressed his hand to her cheek.
“It’s okay, baby,” she said. “It’s okay.”
Dean had reached them by then, but there was nothing left for him to stop.
The man sank into a nearby seat and rubbed both hands over his face.
“Oh my God,” he whispered.
Then he looked up at the mother.
“Ma’am,” he said, his voice cracking. “I am so sorry.”
She didn’t answer.
I don’t think she had anything left to say.
A woman behind me leaned forward and asked, “Would you like us to be quieter?”
The mother shook her head quickly.
“No. Please don’t. He likes hearing the cheers, the groans, the celebrations.”
An older man in a team jacket called down, “What’s his name?”
She wiped her eyes.
