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The pride in my father’s voice is unmistakable, and every face lights up with awe.

Except he didn’t even use my name. Or mention any of my own accomplishments.

Instead, my sole accomplishment seems to be that I married Wyatt Patterson.

It makes me wonder if that’s my only value. Maybe I should change my name to Ofwyatt, like in The Handmaid’s Tale.

“One of my earliest memories is watching that game in the snow the year the Mavericks were in the playoffs for the first time in decades,” one player says, bouncing in his seat. “All because of Wyatt Patterson.”

“He was an incredible player,” my dad agrees, nodding. “And if you keep it up, you could follow in his footsteps.”

My father isn’t just saying it to be supportive of his player. He truly means it. He did the same for Wyatt all those years ago. He never told him it was impossible to go pro. Instead, he gave Wyatt the tools he’d need in order to have a chance.

He didn’t diminish his dreams.

He supported them.

I wish he had supported mine, too.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say politely, “I’ll go see if Mom needs any help.”

I head toward the kitchen, and Gary follows behind. When my father spots him, he arches a brow, as if wondering why I’d bring my dog along for a short visit.

But when one of his players asks a question, his focus shifts from me to his team.

Like always.

I maneuver through the maze of people with Gary on my heels. When I slip around the corner and into the kitchen, I’m greeted by a familiar scene. Mom stands by the sink, rinsing the huge pile of dirty dishes and trying to fit them all into the overflowing dishwasher. Stacks of empty trays cover the counters, with only a little lasagna, chicken parmigiana, and salad left.

For as long as I can remember, my father has invited the entire football team to his house every Thursday night for a team dinner. He likes the idea of giving his players a home-cooked meal the night before game day. A treat after a week of hard work.

As a little girl, I always looked forward to Thursday nights. I loved having all these people in the house. And when I was in high school, I got to be a part of these dinners, since I was dating Wyatt.

I never realized all the work that went into them.

Correction.

I never realized all the work my mother put into them.

Until now.

“You must be hungry after your drive,” Mom says, not even glancing my way. “Let me fix you a plate.” She turns off the water and starts toward the tray of lasagna, but I stop her with a hand on her forearm.

“What about you? Have you eaten?”

Gary immediately wags his tail, convinced I’m talking to him.

“Come on, boy. Want to go back outside?”

He barks, and I lead him toward the back door. The moment I open it, he bolts outside, running around like it’s the first time he’s ever felt grass.

“Eat something. I’ll take care of the dishes,” I tell my mother as I turn back to her.

When she hesitates, I blow out a breath and grab a plate, piling it with lasagna and chicken, along with a piece of garlic bread and a bit of salad. Then I clear some space on the island and point to a high-top chair.

“Sit.”

She opens and closes her mouth several times, searching for a reason she can’t. Finally, she gives in and sits, her shoulders falling, as if she’s been dying to get off her feet all night.