I thought our Saturday swim would end the way it always did, with my son beating me in the pool and celebrating over fries. Instead, one frightened whisper from my son turned an ordinary day into a moment I’ll never forget.
The pool clock read 9:47 a.m. when I pushed off the wall for the last lap, and I could hear Ben laughing three lanes over, even through the water.
My son beat me. He always did these days, and he knew it.
“Dad, that’s four Saturdays in a row!”
My son beat me.
I pulled off my goggles and grinned at him. His hair was plastered flat against his forehead, and he was doing his little victory dance on the tile.
“You’re getting too fast, buddy. I’m gonna have to start training on weekdays.”
“You’ll still lose on weekdays.”
“All right, all right. Cool it, champ.”
I pulled off my goggles.
