It's not a story from my Mom ....

... but a story nonetheless.

Growing up, I was convinced that the only sport that was worth playing was soccer. As far back as I can remember, soccer has always been on TV or on the radio. Soccer was the topic of conversation for my parents and their friends - carrying with it the ability to transform a carefree gathering around the table into the next world war.

At one point, I used to play soccer with a bunch of friends - we never won a game. But after every game, my Dad would ask "how many goals did you score?" My answer was always "None." He would always tell me not to worry, there'd be a goal at the next game. That was about 10 years ago.

After taking a hiatus of about 8 years, I recently joined an indoor soccer team. Last night, I scored my first goal ever. Like a real "shot-on-net" goal, not a "oh-it-bounced-off-my-foot" goal. Making it even more special, my stepson and my husband were there. We ended up losing the game, but that's beside the point.

On the way home, we were chatting about the game and I told my stepson and husband the story about my Dad always asking how many goals I scored. My stepson replies "well, if you want, I will pray with you and we can tell your Dad together." I responded "You know I don't pray, I wasn't raised Catholic." And, in only the way that 10 years olds can do, he says "oh, no problem, I'll tell him for you." Then he looks up to the sky (well, the roof of the car) and says "guess what? Aura scored a goal!!" ... and then says to me "he's proud of you."

When did he turn into an adult?

You know what, though, I know he's proud of me. He always was. It never mattered if I scored a goal or not. I always knew he was proud of me. My Dad was like that. Unconditionally supportive and proud.