My eleven-year-old son had spent four months dreaming about one afternoon.
I had spent those same four months saving every dollar I could so he could have it.
Then, when we finally reached our accessible seats near the football field, a wealthy stranger was sitting in them.
His wife’s designer purse was sitting where my son’s wheelchair was supposed to go.
When I showed him our tickets, he barely looked at them.
“Sit somewhere else.”
I told him my son couldn’t.
Those seats were specifically designed for wheelchair access.
The man shrugged.
“Not my problem.”
Then he looked at Caleb and added,
“He can watch from the concourse. I doubt he even understands football anyway.”
My son quietly touched my arm.
“It’s okay, Mom. We can go.”
Before I could answer, an elderly woman behind us stood up with an old metal lunchbox in her hands.
