Chapter 7 - Mason’s New Chapter
Life settled into a steady, healthy rhythm as winter gave way to the early blooms of spring.
Without the constant financial drain of Matt’s lifestyle and the emotional toxicity of rescuing him from his own poor choices, my energy was entirely reclaimed. My real estate partnership was thriving, but more importantly, my evenings belonged to Mason.
We had finished the entire prehistoric park model collection—Stegosaurus, Triceratops, T-Rex, and Velociraptor—lining them up proudly on a custom wooden shelf in his bedroom.
One Saturday morning in April, Mason came running down the stairs holding his tablet.
"Dad! Dad, look! Uncle Matt sent me a message!"
I froze, instantly alert. "What did he say, buddy?"
Mason tapped the screen and read it aloud with a bright, clear voice:
Uncle Matt: Hey buddy. I know I haven't seen you in a long time. I wanted to let you know I’m coming to your baseball game today. I brought a proper snack for the team—and no, it’s not cake. Hope you hit a home run.
Mason looked up at me with wide, hopeful eyes. "Can he come, Dad? Is it okay?"
I knelt down to his eye level, adjusting the collar of his little Little League baseball jersey. "Are you comfortable with him coming, Mason?"
"Yeah," Mason nodded thoughtfully. "He sounded different on the phone with Mom yesterday. He didn't yell. And he apologized about my birthday cake."
"Did he?"
"Mom said he told her that destroying my cake was mean, and that he was sorry for laughing." Mason smiled. "People can change if they try hard, right Dad?"
"They sure can, buddy," I whispered, pulling him into a tight hug. "Let’s go play some ball."
When we arrived at the neighborhood ball field, the morning sun was warming the fresh green grass of the outfield. Erica was sitting in the bleachers alongside her parents, who had driven down from Virginia for the weekend. When she saw me, she offered a warm, genuine wave—a gesture free of the heavy, suffocating tension that had defined our family dynamic for years.
Ten minutes before game time, Matt walked up behind the backstop fence.
He was wearing a simple blue baseball cap and carrying a large cooler filled with juice boxes and sliced oranges for the kids. He looked leaner, healthier, and entirely grounded.
When he saw Mason standing near the dugout in his full uniform, Matt paused, taking off his cap to wipe his forehead.
"Hey, slugger," Matt called out gently.
Mason turned around, gripping his wooden bat. Instead of running away or hiding behind me, Mason walked right over to the fence.
"Hey, Uncle Matt," Mason said. "Did you bring the oranges?"
May you like
Matt’s face lit up with a brilliant, tearful smile. "Every single one of them. Extra cold, just the way your dad likes them." He looked past Mason toward me, catching my eye through the chain-link fence. He gave a single, respectful nod.
I nodded back.
