“My hat, Ava.”

I reach her in two quick strides and yank the worn Iowa Cubs cap off her freshly done braids, holding it out of her reach as she tries to grab it back.

“Aww, please, Sean?” Her eyes get big and her lip trembles in the pout that Mom always finds so irresistible. I happen to think it’s totally resistible, but that doesn’t mean it’s not calculated to get me in trouble if she decides to escalate, which of course she does. “Mo-om! Sean’s not sharing!”

“Sean, be nice to your sister,” Mom’s weary voice calls from the kitchen, and I glare at Ava.

“This isn’t me not sharing—this is her stealing!”

I can almost hear Mom’s sigh in the silence that follows, but she comes out of the kitchen and looks from me to Ava.

“What’s he not sharing, sweetheart?”

“My hat!” I hold it out so Mom can see, still keeping it out of Ava’s reach, since possession is nine-tenths of the law if she’s the one with the possession.

“Ava…” Mom’s eyes are a little reproachful as she looks down at her, which gives me a tiny bit of hope.

“It’s not his, it’s Daddy’s,” Ava whines, and Mom closes her eyes.

“Yes, it’s—was—Daddy’s, but Sean’s had it for years now, and you never wanted it before.”

“But he didn’t ask!”

Mom rubs her forehead, and I can already feel the injustice bubbling, the “it’s just one day, honey” and “she does have a point” and “is it really that big a deal?” that always follows that look because Mom’s just too drained today and it’s easier to let Ava win. But then Mom looks up at me again, and instead of defeat and pleading in her eyes, there’s something like sympathy.

“No, Ava. Daddy and Sean had baseball together a long time before you did. Maybe we can get you your own cap for your birthday. For now, you’ll have to wear your pink one.”

“But the pink one doesn’t match!” Her eyes are getting misty now, and I notice for the first time that she’s done her outfit up in all red and blue. She’s never cared about matching the home team’s colors before, and anger stirs in my gut at the thought of her using Dad’s hat for a fashion accessory, but Mom shakes her head.

“I’m sorry, Ava. You can wear any other hat you want. Sean doesn’t have to give you that one.”

Ava bolts away and runs up the stairs, and Mom turns back to the kitchen, and I just stand there, letting the unexpected triumph wash over me in a wave that somehow doesn’t last nearly as long as it should. I cram the hat onto my head and go out to the backyard, where I pull on my glove and start tossing the ball to myself in the way that always relaxes me, only this time, I don’t seem to be settling. All I can think about is Ava’s face, which makes absolutely no sense.

She never even showed any interest in baseball until the last few months, let alone Dad’s ball cap. Sure she played a couple very mild games of catch with us when she was three or four, but baseball was only ever my thing until her best friend decided to try out for the under-elevens. If I’d ever even thought to ask about Dad’s cap, she literally would not have cared less until the last five minutes. So why does my complete, legitimate, and totally righteous victory feel so hollow?

I walk around to the front of the house, trying to leave my muddled thoughts behind, and find Ava lying on the porch swing with her head on her arm, not sobbing like she does when she wants sympathy, but with quiet little tears rolling out of her closed eyes. It’s not an act; she doesn’t even know I’m out here, and Mom is nowhere in sight. There’s a picture sitting under her hand, and I crane my neck to see it.

It was taken after one of Dad’s triple-A games, judging from the dirt on his uniform—probably one of his last, since Ava on his shoulders looks to be about two. I remember when he used to take us down to the dugout like this and show us around—back before a routine screening uncovered an odd lump—back before he gave up the game he loved to spend as much time with us as he could—back before the cancer took him much too soon. But Ava was still very little at the time; she probably doesn’t remember any of it.

That’s when it hits me. Ava doesn’t remember baseball. She barely remembers Dad. That’s the whole point, only not in the way I thought. 

I can still feel his arms around me, correcting my grip, adjusting my stance, guiding my swing. Hat or not, I’m never going to lose the years I had with him. But Ava—Ava’s trying to build a memory that was never there, to connect with something she never knew. She doesn’t have memories to help her feel close to Dad; she only has things.

Pictures.

Stories.

A hat.

“Hey. Scoot over.” I nudge her legs, and she scrambles up fast, hurrying to wipe her cheeks so I can’t see her tears. That’s definitely different. I slide into the space beside her and just rock for a few minutes. “How’s practice going?” I ask finally.

She darts a surprised glance toward me—have I really never asked her that?—then puts her chin down on her knees again.

“I’m not very good.” She mumbles the words, but somehow I can hear the fear in them—fear of letting Dad down just when she’s finally found a connection to the thing he loved.

“Want some help?”

“Really?” She can’t seem to decide between hope and doubt as she looks up at me again.

“Why not?”

“You’re so good…” She looks away again, and I know I’m the one who hasn’t lived up to Dad’s standard if that’s why she hasn’t asked before.

“I’m nothing special. Not like Dad was. I just practice—a lot. And I had a good teacher.”

“You think I can get better?”

“I think we can find out.”

“Thanks, Sean.” She smiles a little and blinks hard, and I hesitate for just another second before pulling off the cap and settling it on her braids again. She’s shaking her head before I finish. “Mom said it was yours.”

“It is. This is a loan. Just for the game today. If you’re still coming.”

She slams into me with a hug that almost takes my breath away, and I awkwardly pat her back a few times before I straighten.

“Go get your glove. You never know when you might catch a foul.”

Ava races off just as Mom comes out the door with our basket of lunch. She looks from Ava to me and raises an eyebrow, and I shrug a little sheepishly as I get up from the swing.

“My hat. My choice. She doesn’t have him here like I do.” I tap my heart, and Mom’s eyes get misty as she puts an arm around my shoulder.

“Dad would be proud of you, sweetheart.” She whispers the words, and suddenly I know that means more to me than anything. Even more than his hat.