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“You should be saving for your future,” he said.
“You are part of my future,” I replied.
On match day, he tucked June’s photograph into his pocket. At the stadium, he held it toward the field.
“We finally made it, sweetheart.”
Then a sharply dressed man arrived with his wife and teenage son. He checked our numbers, glanced at his row, and announced that he was taking ours.
“These are accessible seats,” I said. “They belong to us.”
He glanced at Grandpa and shrugged.
“The old man can sit anywhere. He probably won’t remember the match tomorrow.”
His son, Brandon, went pale.
I called for a steward, but Grandpa touched my wrist.
“We didn’t come here to fight.”
The stranger sat in Grandpa’s seat. His wife followed, avoiding my eyes. Brandon remained standing.
I helped Grandpa turn toward the aisle. The excitement had vanished from his face, and that hurt more than losing the seats.