He went.
He did not receive a Division I scholarship.
He eventually played Division II basketball at a college in Virginia.
Partial athletic aid.
Strong academic package.
He studied physical therapy.
The family survived the disappointment that basketball did not transform into fame.
Renee discovered she liked watching games better when every possession was not treated as evidence of a future contract.
Miles moved away from basketball almost entirely.
At thirteen he joined his middle school's engineering club.
At fourteen he built a small weather station from discarded sensors.
At fifteen he became obsessed with astronomy.
The telescope traveled onto the driveway so frequently that Walter complained he could no longer park without risking “running over NASA.”
Miles replied:
“NASA has a bigger budget.”
“Then tell them to buy you a driveway.”
His relationship with Walter became stronger.
Darius noticed.
Old jealousy flickered.
He hated himself for it.
Then, instead of swallowing it, he told Dr. Green.
“I still feel like Grandpa likes Miles more.”
Walter sat across the room.
He looked wounded.
Dr. Green did not rescue him.
“Walter?”
He thought.
“Maybe I understand Miles more easily.”
Darius stared.
Walter continued:
“He likes quiet.”
“So do I.”
“He likes fixing things.”
“Marcus did too.”
Darius looked down.
Walter said:
“You and I missed years.”
“That's my fault.”
Darius shook his head.
“Not only.”
Walter accepted that.
“What do you want?”
Darius stared.
Nobody had asked the question so directly.
“Teach me the truck.”
Walter frowned.
“What?”
“Dad knew engines.”
“You do.”
“I know nothing.”
Walter smiled.
“You know basketball.”
“Grandpa.”
“Fine.”
That Saturday Walter taught Darius to change oil.
Darius hated it.
The next weekend he returned.
Not because cars suddenly interested him.
Because he wanted time that belonged to them.
People often assumed repair meant recreating what should have happened originally.
It did not.
Walter and Darius never developed the same relationship Walter had with Miles.
They built another one.
That was better than imitation.
Renee found the hardest consequences later.
At Miles's middle-school award ceremony, parents were asked to write a short note for each student.
Renee wrote three paragraphs.
Miles read them.
Then folded the card.
“Thanks.”
She waited for more.
Nothing.
On the drive home she felt disappointed.
Then ashamed of being disappointed.
Repair had no obligation to produce the reaction she wanted.
She told Dr. Green.
The therapist said:
“You keep hoping Miles will certify that you're a good mother again.”
Renee cried.
“Yes.”
“That is not his job.”
“I know.”
“Then become one without asking for a certificate.”
That sentence hurt.
It helped.
When Miles was fifteen, he asked Renee for something expensive.
A summer astronomy camp in Arizona.