“I know you’re right,” I say. She is. The best way to take care of Bex—materially, at least—is to play football. “But she has the diner, and she’s committed to it. If she’s there and I’m across the country . . .” “Talk to her about it,” she says. “You can figure something out. Compromise, honey.” “Easier said than done.” She rises from her chair and comes around the table to pat my cheek. “I never said it was easy. Just that you can do it.”
