Monica feared the worst for her child after her husband, Frank, who had no hair, no muscle, and no window in his room at the office, impregnated her. This balding man without ability and aspiration would ruin her child. He made good money, but such miserable genetics would never compete against her friend's children. Her husband's genes were to compete against Charlie's genes, and this is why she worried.

Charlie swam for Ivy League, where he met Nancy, who modeled her hands for Gregory's ring collection at Hartman's Jewelry. Greg and Dennis never did find themselves a uterus, but rumor has their Russian baby in the mail. Nancy spreads the news, Nancy and her fish lips. It was no wonder they were the first couple in the Sunday school to have a baby. Fish lips never entertained the swimmer, so when the rest of Nancy grew weary, she lied.

She couldn't refuse him and risk the marriage. She had the best husband in the group. The girls saw it coming, but Charlie thought they were still planning when he was taken by surprise with a nine-month depression. Monica felt depressed too. Her husband was no match for a swimmer, nor a Russian. Monica's friends would accept no indecent child as slobbery and undeveloped as hers would surely be. They would allow it, of course, but only to numb their mishaps.

Nancy would say, "Yes, it's a rightful shame our Johnny made wall art with excrement, but never mind him. Monica's child is still breastfeeding. Monica's child keeps me from Xanax." Monica wouldn't have it, so she prayed. Maybe it wouldn't work, but she was desperate. She began, "Dear..." but she quit at once. She reneged. She never said anything. She had God convinced that she never spoke. "I stopped, God. I never started. You heard nothing."

She couldn't waste one of her godly wishes before considering what Pastor Michael said. A prayer by one is an email in his inbox, but a prayer by many is a group message on his lock screen. Ask yourself, "How should you reach God tonight?" It was a contemporary church. Who else would marry Greg and Dennis? But she knew no Christians with whom to pray, so she never did pray at all.

Three years passed and Monica had her son, Alex, somersaulting at the local gymnasium. It took effort. Hard lessons, tears, bribery. It bled Franks model train fund, but this was more important than weekends at Hobby Town. It was most important that Alex took to something and found success. She made him exercise his concentration. She fabricated withdrawals.

Mother told Alex he could only roll at the gym, and she made him watch as neighbors practiced in their yards back home. Friends rolled for pleasure, but Alex rolled for purpose. Instructors told her otherwise, to humor more freedom, but she refused to consider. Alex begged his father to beg his mother for just one spare tumble, but father only returned on the weekends, and Alex never could ring a phone.

Alex craved the gym mat. Mother had him conditioned. He studied the blue felt and rubbed his cheeks up against its surface. He must have learned it from the dogs. He looked both ways like father had shown him on the crosswalks. He asked permission because mother tricked him into thinking it a privilege. She made him wait for further confirmation until, alas, battery-lit sneakers danced and kicked and dug into the floor mats until his head went into his crotch and he came full round, flopped on his back, and somersaulted. The other kids did it better, and she despised losing.

A year followed, and she decided to pursue something else. They arrived at the soccer fields with the same effect, but with less instruction. Monica entrusted the church, so she left her son at the curb with his cleats laced in a triple knot. He cried when she drove away because he knew better than to cry in front of her. He cried at the taste of dandelions picked from the sidelines. Other children cleated the backs of his legs in pursuit of the ball. He cried more. The unending sob had his whole shirt saturated like a hard-earned sweat stain. Alex would have fooled his mother, except he never stopped wailing when she finally did return.

The other kids never cried, and she despised weeping. Another year brought another sport, this time the pool, where maybe his tears wouldn't show. But Alex couldn't swim, and he choked on the water and splashed on his dives. He refused to wear goggles but still shut his eyes. Mother never dared show herself, especially with so much tell-tale at the country club Cabana. She sent Frank instead. He took ownership. He framed the six-place ribbons. He photographed their drowning son. The other kids stayed afloat, and she despised sinking.

Mother settled her losses with a glass. She took to drinking just before the holidays. Its incessant demand left her bedridden for Thanksgiving, but her bed left her thankful. She dreamed of how well her child still was. Alex did come to swim, and he never came to quit, but he also never came to win. And she never quit dreaming of his success and the praise her family would receive come the glories her house so deserved.

Christmas promised presents with propositions for new games, and it all had mother inspired again, and sober again. So she left for the store, aisle number four, baseball. The store had her thrilled. Each aisle was another opportunity. She passed weights, and boxing bags, and football pads, and tennis rackets, and golf clubs, and kayaks, and dirt bikes, and basketballs, and volleyballs, and bowling balls. She could mold her child into anything, except she was destined to fail. Her friends predicted it long ago, long before the Sunday school ended.

It'd been since the babies arrived that Charlie returned Nancy and their newborn Jonathan back to New England. It'd been six years since Frank took a job on the West Coast, and since Monica last wrote Nancy. It was too much pressure to compete so directly, so Monica abandoned her friends, but she still wished her boy more success than the others. She still prayed for a miracle. Except Monica's son fulfilled no miracle.

Each new sport promised new headaches and further disappointment. She expected the baseball bat for Christmas to bring nothing less, but she went ahead and made her aisle four purchase. She still hoped for a miracle. A Christmas miracle, which she would find at home, in her mailbox. Nancy wrote her.

"It brings us great sorrow to call our friends to mourn the life of our dearest Jonathan, who left us far too young." Charlie and Nancy signed it. Nancy apologized. "Sorry I never told you sooner, Monica. Jonathan had a terrible accident on the stairs. It left him paralyzed and we struggled for a year. We tried operating, but the risk was far beyond a miracle." Monica returned the baseball bat. She won.

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