"Evan is starting teeball tomorrow," I told my mom on the phone. Sitting in the midst of the remains of dinner served to six children, enjoying a soda, I was catching up on the news as Mom and I often do--one of the little rituals my mom did with her mother, my gramma Mary, and that I hope to do too, with my children. "Oh good!" she remarked, adding, "I hope you make him stick with it this time."

Evan had tried a karate class for homeschooled children like ours, and it had been a disaster. Always having had difficulty adjusting to new situations, he had tried karate, but was too scared of the large gym, smelly socks, and unfamiliar noises. We had not forced the issue, hoping we could find some other way for him to connect to the world outside, to learn that being part of a team is a good thing. Hopefully teeball, in a grassy field outside, would be less scary, more comfortable, less new-feeling.

At the store that evening buying his first glove and bat, resentment welled in me, quickly quashed. It wasn't fair ! This should be Ethan buying his first glove, Ethan wearing a baseball hat turned backward, red curls peeping out, face frowning as he forced his fingers into a too-stiff piece of leather, wondering how he would ever catch a ball in THAT. Blinking, I looked at Evan, working his fingers in and out, feeling the stiffness, smelling that distinctive leather smell, excitement all but oozing from him.

Ethan should have been there to show his little brother how to use a glove, how to crouch and trap a ball, how to hold a bat to hit it off the tee. Arriving home, slamming the door, forcing a smile on my face, I faced Norman, who knew as he always did that something was wrong. Hiding my tears from Evan, not wanting to steal his moment, this oh-so-proud time of a first glove, from my now-oldest.

Locking myself in the bathroom, I closed my eyes, and let myself wallow in the resentment and self-pity. Why my son? Why did Ethan have to die and steal this time from us, this relationship from Evan and his smaller brothers, from ME? Why could he not have been allowed to live, to grow and shine, teeth flashing, hair bouncing as he caught a ball, made a home run? Not fair, I thought . . . not fair at all.

"Mom, come see me hit this!" Evan called excitedly, waiting to show me with his little boy bravado what a great batter he was. Eyes alight with joy, body moving forward with the bat, Evan hit the ball off a makeshift tee Norman had thrown together. The ball crashed resoundingly into the garage door, making a "whump!" to satisfy any boy. Smiling, I congratulate him, hiding my resentment of Ethan and my anger at my firstborn for dying. Maybe Ethan will be there, too; maybe he will be an angel in the little league outfield, urging his brother on, cheering for him, helping him reach that just-a-little-too-high ball . . . maybe.