To The Parents Watching Their Last Game

You knew it was the last one.

And still—you weren’t ready.

 

You sat in your usual spot—the one that’s held a hundred games, and now, the last.

 

The warm-up jog.

The way they tucked their jersey in without thinking.

How they looked back one last time before stepping onto the field, the court, the track.

 

You tried to stay present.

 

But your brain was everywhere—flashing through years of Residence Inn breakfasts, carpool laughter, late-night ice bags, and quiet car rides home—moments that felt small at the time, but now feel like everything.

 

You watched the final point. The last at-bat. The closing quarter.

You clapped. You smiled. You held it together.

And then you just sat there.

 

Because when it ends—really ends—there’s no ceremony. No instructions. Just your kid taking off their uniform and heading toward whatever’s next.

You’re allowed to ache.

 

Not because you wanted it to last forever.

But because this was part of who you were for so long, too.