Inside were his winter parka, his favorite dinosaur encyclopedia, his board games and the little gold-painted plastic trophy he’d won in his very first season of Little League.

I lifted that dusty plastic trophy out of the box and felt a wave of grief so strong that my knees buckled against the cold cement.

Peter was the one who had spent hours in the backyard teaching Austin how to hold a wooden bat, cheering himself hoarse whenever the boy managed to hit the ball.

Every single Saturday morning for the last four years had been set aside for practicing grounders at the neighborhood park, just the two of them bonding as father and son.

And yet here was that same trophy, boxed up in a dark garage like junk headed for a yard sale, all because Peter had decided our firstborn could be spared when money got tight.