years old, Travis,” I said, stopping beside his workbench.
Travis did not stop wiping the threads of the bolt. “I know how long she has lived in this house, Brenda.”
“You drove her to every volleyball practice in town for five years,” I said. “You drove her all the way to Waterloo for club tournaments when she was twelve. You spent three days building that wooden rebounder frame behind the barn so she could practice her serve.”
“Building a rebounder in the yard is one thing,” Travis said, his voice quiet and level. “Walking out onto center court in front of seven hundred people under a public banner that says father is something else.”
“Her real father has not sent a birthday card since she was eight,” I said, feeling the heat rise in my face. “He lives somewhere down in Missouri and does not even know what position she
