Raising Them, Raising Me Part 4: Behind Every Pitch There Was Her

There are moments in life that don’t announce themselves.
They arrive quietly. In the middle of an ordinary morning. Between a tied knot and a goodbye kiss.

Months had passed since the water beads. Reyna had found a new trick clapping. At the dog on TV, at a door closing, at nothing at all.

Early that winter, the cold had a way of settling into the office that made even the heater feel like a trap that warm, sleepy pull that tells your body to slow down while your mind still has work to do. I remember fighting that feeling the whole season, because I had a pitch to make.

But I also remember the other side of that work. The team up on the rooftops, installing panels while the wind cut straight through whatever you were wearing. Hands going numb around tools that were already cold to begin with.

That’s the part nobody sees when they talk about solar not the pitch, not the proposal, just men exposed to the elements because the work doesn’t pause for weather. That’s what being a provider actually costs sometimes. And somehow, you carry it anyway, because there’s a family waiting at home who doesn’t see the wind, only the man who comes back to them.

Not a small one. New houses were going up in Burnside fresh builds, the kind of neighborhood where solar installations made perfect sense. I had a proposal, the numbers right, the timing perfect, the opportunity ripe.

The first pitch got denied.
I won’t pretend that didn’t hurt. You put your heart into something, walk in with confidence and walk out with a polite no and a long, quiet drive home.

But we regrouped. Adjusted. And we went again.

The morning of the second pitch, I stood in front of the mirror. Shirt on. Tie half done. My mind racing numbers, words, another possible no. And then she walked in.

Without saying much, her hands reached up and fixed my tie. Straightened it, calm and sure, like she already knew what I had forgotten.

“Don’t stress,” she said. “It’s all going to work out.”
I didn’t have much hope that morning. I won’t pretend otherwise. But she said it like she had already seen the outcome like she was holding a secret future I hadn’t touched yet.

Then she smiled.
“You remember yesterday? How Reyna was bouncing and clapping? Dancing like crazy?”
I nodded.

“Those claps were for you. That baby knows. The day I know you will make it.”

I laughed one of those laughs that surprises you, because it lands somewhere deeper than just a joke. It was a prayer, spoken in confidence.

I kissed her. Kissed Reyna. And walked out the door.
The whole way to work I carried that moment her hands on my tie, her voice, that image of Reyna bouncing and clapping unaware of everything riding on that morning. Just clapping.

And my heart? It was doing things it shouldn’t. Palpitations. The kind your body sends when everything feels like it’s on the line and you’re the only one who doesn’t know how it ends.

I got to work. And the news was waiting.
Pitch accepted. We’re moving forward first batch confirmed.
I stood there for a moment.
And all I could see was Reyna clapping.

She wasn’t in that meeting room.
But my tie was still straight.
And somewhere in my head, Reyna was still clapping.

—

This post was previously published on medium.com.